HALF  HOURS 


Pantaloon 

The  Twelve  "Pound  Look 

Rosalind 

The  Will 


J-M-BARRJE 


BOOKS  BY  J.  M.  BARRIE 

PUBLISHED  BT  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Half  Hours.    12mo net  $1.25 

Peter  and  Wendy.    Illustrated.    12mo 

net  51.50 

Peter  Pan  in  Kensington  Gardens. 
With  16  Illustrations  in  Color  by 
ARTHUR  RACKHAM.  12mo  ....  net  $1.50 

The  Little  White  Bird.     12mo    .    .    net  $1.35 

Sentimental  Tommy.  The  Story  of  His 
Boyhood.  Illustrated.  12mo .  .  net  $1.35 

Tommy  and  Qrizel.    Illustrated.    12mo 

net  $1.35 

Margaret  Ogilvy.    By  Her  Son.    12mo 

net  $1.25 

A  Window  in  Thrums.  [Cameo Edition.] 
16mo net  $1.25 

Auld    Licht    Idylls.    [Cameo  Edition.] 

net  $1.23 


HALF  HOURS 


HALF  HOURS 


BY 

J.  M.  BARRIE 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1914 


COPTBIGHT.   1914,   BT 

CHARLES  SCBIBNEB'S  SONS 


Published  October.  1914 


SRLF 
URL 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


PANTALOON 1 

THE  TWELVE -POUND  LOOK 41 

ROSALIND 87 

THE  WILL  153 


PANTALOON 


PANTALOON 

THE  scene  makes  -  believe  to  be  the  private 
home  of  PANTALOON  and  COLUMBINE,  though 
whether  they  ever  did  have  a  private  home  is 
uncertain. 

In  the  English  version  (and  with  that  alone 
are  we  concerning  ourselves)  these  two  were 
figures  in  the  harlequinade  which  in  Victorian 
days  gave  a  finish  to  pantomime  as  vital  as 
a  tail  to  a  dog.  Now  they  are  vanished  from 
the  boards;  or  at  best  they  wander  through  the 
canvas  streets,  in  everybody's  way,  at  heart 
afraid  of  their  own  policeman,  really  dead, 
and  waiting,  like  the  faithful  old  horse,  for 
some  one  to  push  them  over.  Here  at  the 
theatre  is  perhaps  a  scrap  of  COLUMBINE'S 
skirt,  torn  off  as  she  squeezed  through  the 
wings  for  the  last  time,  or  even  placed  there 


4  PANTALOON 

intentionally  by  her  as  a  souvenir:  COL- 
UMBINE to  her  public,  a  kiss  hanging  on  a 
nail. 

They  are  very  illusive.  One  has  to  toss 
to  find  out  what  was  their  relation  to  each 
other:  whether  PANTALOON,  for  instance,  was 
COLUMBINE'S  father.  He  was  an  old,  old 
urchin  of  the  streets  over  whom  some  fairy 
wand  had  been  waved,  rather  carelessly,  and 
this  makes  him  a  child  of  art;  now  we  must 
all  be  nice  to  children  of  art,  and  the  nicest 
thing  we  can  do  for  PANTALOON  is  to  bring 
the  penny  down  heads  and  give  him  a  delight- 
ful daughter.  So  COLUMBINE  was  PANTA- 
LOON'S daughter. 

It  would  be  cruel  to  her  to  make  her  his  wife, 
because  then  she  could  not  have  a  love-affair. 

The  mother  is  dead,  to  give  the  little  home 
a  touch  of  pathos. 

We  have  now  proved  that  PANTALOON  and 
his  daughter  did  have  a  home,  and  as  soon  as 
we  know  that,  we  know  more.  We  know, 
for  instance,  that  as  half  a  crown  seemed  almost 


PANTALOON  5 

a  competency  to  them,  their  home  must  have 
been  in  a  poor  locality  and  conveniently  small. 
We  know  also  that  the  sitting-room  and  kitchen 
combined  must  have  been  on  the  ground  floor. 
We  know  it,  because  in  the  harlequinade  they 
were  always  flying  from  the  policeman  or 
bashing  his  helmet,  and  PANTALOON  would 
have  taken  ill  with  a  chamber  that  was  not 
easily  commanded  by  the  policeman  on  his 
beat.  Even  COLUMBINE,  we  may  be  sure, 
refined  as  she  was  and  incapable  of  the  pettiest 
larceny,  liked  the  homely  feeling  of  dodging 
the  policeman's  eye  as  she  sat  at  meals. 
Lastly,  we  know  that  directly  opposite  the 
little  home  was  a  sausage-shop,  the  pleasantest 
of  all  sights  to  PANTALOON,  who,  next  to  his 
daughter,  loved  a  sausage.  It  is  being  almost 
too  intimate  to  tell  that  COLUMBINE  hated 
sausages;  she  hated  them  as  a  literary 
hand's  daughter  might  hate  manuscripts.  But 
like  a  loving  child  she  never  told  her  hate, 
and  spent  great  part  of  her  time  wasting 
sausages  to  a  turn  before  the  fire,  and  eating 


6  PANTALOON 

her  own  one  bravely  when  she  must,  but  con- 
cealing it  in  the  oddest  places  when  she  could. 

We  should  now  be  able  to  reconstitute 
PANTALOON'S  parlour.  It  is  agreeably  stuffy, 
with  two  windows  and  a  recess  between  them, 
from  which  one  may  peep  both  ways  for  the 
policeman.  The  furniture  is  in  horse-hair,, 
no  rents  showing,  because  careful  COLUMBINE 
has  covered  them  with  antimacassars.  All 
the  chairs  (but  not  the  sofa)  are  as  sound  of 
limb  as  they  look  except  one,  and  COLUMBINE, 
who  is  as  light  as  an  air  balloon,  can  sit  on 
this  one  even  with  her  feet  off  the  floor.  Though 
the  time  is  summer  there  is  a  fire  burning, 
so  that  PANTALOON  need  never  eat  his  sausages 
raw,  which  he  might  do  inadvertently  if  COL- 
UMBINE did  not  take  them  gently  from  his 
hand.  There  is  a  cosy  round  table  with  a 
wax-cloth  cover  adhering  to  it  like  a  sticking- 
plaster,  and  this  table  is  set  for  tea.  His- 
trionic dignity  is  given  to  the  room  by  a  large 
wicker  trunk  in  which  PANTALOON'S  treasures 
are  packed  when  he  travels  by  rail,  and  on  it 


PANTALOON  7 

is  a  printed  intimation  that  he  is  one  of  the 
brightest  wits  on  earth.  COLUMBINE  could  be 
crushed,  concertina-like,  into  half  of  this  trunk, 
and  it  may  be  that  she  sometimes  travels  thus 
to  save  her  ticket.  Between  the  windows  hangs 
a  glass  case,  such  as  those  at  inns  wherein 
Piscator  preserves  his  stuffed  pike,  but  this 
one  contains  a  poker.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  that  PANTALOON  is  sufficiently  catholic 
in  his  tastes  to  spare  a  favourable  eye  for  other 
arts  than  his  own.  There  are  various  paint- 
ings on  the  walls,  all  of  himself,  with  the 
exception  of  a  small  one  of  his  wife.  These 
represent  him  not  in  humorous  act  but  for 
all  time,  as,  for  instance,  leaning  on  a  bracket 
and  reading  a  book,  with  one  finger  laid 
lightly  against  his  nose. 

So  far  our  work  of  reconstitution  has  been 
easy,  but  we  now  come  to  the  tpaser.  In  all 
these  pictures  save  one  (to  be  referred  to  in  its 
proper  place)  PANTALOON  is  presented  not  on 
the  stage  but  in  private  life,  yet  he  is  garbed 
and  powdered  as  we  know  him  in  the  harle- 


8  PANTALOON 

quinade.  If  they  are  genuine  portraits,  there- 
fore, they  tell  us  something  profoundly  odd 
about  the  home  life  of  PANTALOON;  nothing 
less  than  this,  that  as  he  was  on  the  stage,  so 
he  was  off  it,  clothes,  powder,  and  all;  he 
was  not  acting  a  part  in  the  harlequinade, 
he  was  merely  being  himself.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly this  strange  discovery  that  set  us 
writing  a  play  about  him. 

Of  course  bitter  controversy  may  come  of 
this,  for  not  every  one  will  agree  that  we  are 
right.  It  is  well  known  among  the  cognos- 
centi that  actors  in  general  are  not  the  same 
off  the  stage  as  on;  that  they  dress  for  their 
parts,  speak  words  written  for  them  which 
they  do  not  necessarily  believe,  and  afterwards 
wash  the  whole  thing  off  and  then  go  to  clubs 
and  coolly  cross  their  legs.  I  accept  this  to 
be  so  (though  I  think  it  a  pity),  but  PANTALOON 
was  never  an  actor  in  their  sense;  he  would 
have  scorned  to  speak  words  written  for  him 
by  any  whipper snapper;  what  he  said  and 
did  before  the  footlights  were  the  result  of 


PANTALOON  9 

mature  conviction  and  represented  his  philos- 
ophy of  life.  It  is  the  more  easy  to  believe 
this  of  him  because  we  are  so  anxious  to  be- 
lieve it  of  COLUMBINE.  Otherwise  she  could 
not  wear  her  pretty  skirts  in  our  play,  and 
that  would  be  unbearable. 

If  this  noble  and  simple  consistency  was 
the  mark  of  PANTALOON  and  COLUMBINE  (as 
we  have  now  proved  up  to  the  hilt),  it  must  have 
distinguished  no  less  the  other  members  of  the 
harlequinade.  There  were  two  others,  the 
HARLEQUIN  and  the  CLOWN. 

In  far-back  days,  when  the  world  was  so 
young  that  pieces  of  the  original  egg-shell  still 
adhered  to  it,  one  boy  was  so  desperately 
poor  that  he  alone  of  children  could  not  don 
fancy  dress  on  fair  days.  Presently  the  other 
children  were  sorry  for  this  drab  one,  so  each 
of  them  clipped  a  little  bit  of  his  own  clothing 
and  gave  it  to  him.  These  were  sewn  together 
and  made  into  a  costume  for  him,  by  the  jolly 
little  tailors  who  in  our  days  have  quite  gone 
out,  and  that  is  why  HARLEQUIN  has  come  down 


10  PANTALOON 

to  us  in  patchwork.  He  was  a  lovely  boy 
with  no  brains  at  all  (not  that  this  matters), 
while  the  CLOWN  was  all  brain. 

It  has  been  our  whim  to  make  PANTALOON 
and  COLUMBINE  our  chief  figures,  but  we 
have  had  to  go  for  them,  as  it  were,  to  the 
kitchen;  the  true  head  of  the  harlequinade  was 
the  CLOWN.  You  could  not  become  a  clown 
by  taking  thought,  you  had  to  be  born  one.  It 
was  just  a  chance.  If  the  CLOWN  had  wished 
to  walk  over  the  others  they  would  have  spread 
themselves  on  the  ground  so  that  he  should 
be  able  to  do  it  without  inconveniencing  him- 
self. Any  money  they  had  they  got  from  him, 
and  it  was  usually  pennies.  If  they  dis- 
pleased him  he  caned  them.  He  had  too  much 
power  and  it  brutalised  him,  as  we  shall  see, 
but  in  fairness  it  should  be  told  that  he  owed 
his  supremacy  entirely  to  his  funniness.  The 
family  worshipped  funniness,  and  he  was  the 
funniest. 

It  is  not  necessary  for  our  play  to  reconsti- 
tute the  homes  of  HARLEQUIN  and  CLOWN,  but 


PANTALOON  11 

it  could  be  done.  HARLEQUIN,  as  a  bachelor 
with  no  means  but  with  a  secret  conviction  that 
he  was  a  gentleman,  had  a  sitting-and-bed 
combined  at  the  top  of  a  house  too  near  Jermyn 
Street  for  his  purse.  He  made  up  by  not  eating 
very  much,  which  was  good  for  his  figure. 
He  always  carried  his  wand,  which  had  curious 
magical  qualities,  for  instance  it  could  make 
him  invisible;  but  in  the  street  he  seldom 
asked  this  of  it,  having  indeed  a  friendly 
desire  to  be  looked  at.  He  had  delightful 
manners  and  an  honest  heart.  The  CLOWN, 
who,  of  course,  had  appearances  to  keep  up, 
knew  the  value  of  a  good  address,  and  un- 
doubtedly lived  in  the  Cromwell  Road.  He 
smoked  cigars  with  bands  round  them,  and 
his  togs  were  cut  in  Savile  Row. 

CLOWN  and  PANTALOON  were  a  garrulous 
pair,  but  COLUMBINE  and  HARLEQUIN  never 
spoke.  I  don't  know  whether  they  were  what 
we  call  dumb.  Perhaps  if  they  had  tried  to 
talk  with  their  tongues  they  could  have  done 
so,  but  they  never  thought  of  it.  They  were 


12  PANTALOON 

such  exquisite  dancers  that  they  did  all  their 
talking  with  their  legs.  There  is  nothing 
that  may  be  said  which  they  could  not  express 
with  this  leg  or  that.  It  is  the  loveliest  of  all 
languages,  and  as  soft  as  the  fall  of  snow. 

When  the  curtain  rises  we  see  COLUMBINE 
alone  in  the  little  house,  very  happy  and  gay, 
for  she  has  no  notion  that  her  tragic  hour  is 
about  to  strike .  She  is  dressed  precisely  as 
we  may  have  seen  her  on  the  stage.  It  is  the 
pink  skirt,  the  white  one  being  usually  kept 
for  Sunday,  which  is  also  washing-day;  and 
we  almost  wish  this  had  been  Sunday,  just 
to  show  COLUMBINE  in  white  at  the  tub,  washing 
the  pink  without  letting  a  single  soap-sud  pop 
on  to  the  white.  She  is  toasting  bread  rhyth- 
mically by  the  fire,  and  hides  the  toasting-fork 
as  the  policeman  passes  suspiciously  outside. 
Presently  she  is  in  a  whirl  of  emotion  because 
she  has  heard  HARLEQUIN'S  knock.  She 
rushes  to  the  window  and  hides  (they  were 
always  hiding),  she  blows  kisses,  and  in  her 
excitement  she  is  everywhere  and  nowhere  at 


PANTALOON  13 

once,  like  a  kitten  that  leaps  at  nothing  and 
stops  half-way.  She  has  the  short  quick  steps 
of  a  bird  on  a  lawn.  Long  before  we  have 
time  to  describe  her  movements  she  has  bobbed 
out  of  sight  beneath  the  table  to  await  HARLE- 
QUIN funnily,  for  we  must  never  forget  that 
they  are  a  funny  family.  With  a  whirl  of  his 
wand  that  is  itself  a  dance,  HARLEQUIN  makes 
the  door  fly  open.  He  enters,  says  the  stage 
direction,  but  what  it  means  is  that  somehow 
he  is  now  in  the  room.  He  probably  knows 
that  COLUMBINE  is  beneath  the  table,  as  she 
hides  so  often  and  there  are  so  few  places  in 
the  room  to  hide  in,  but  he  searches  for  her 
elsewhere,  even  in  a  jug,  to  her  extreme  mirth, 
for  of  course  she  is  peeping  at  him.  He  taps 
the  wicker  basket  with  his  wand  and  the  lid 
flies  open.  Still  no  COLUMBINE  !  He  sits 
dejectedly  on  a  chair  by  the  table,  with  one 
foot  toward  the  spot  where  we  last  saw  her 
head.  This  is  irresistible.  She  kisses  the 
foot.  She  is  out  from  beneath  the  table  now, 
and  he  is  pursuing  her  round  the  room.  They 


14  PANTALOON 

are  as  wayward  as  leaves  in  a  gale.  The 
cunning  fellow  pretends  he  does  not  want  her, 
and  now  it  is  she  who  is  pursuing  him.  There 
is  something  entrancing  in  his  hand.  It  is 
a  ring.  It  is  the  engagement-ring  at  last ! 
She  falters,  she  blushes,  but  she  snatches  at 
the  ring.  He  tantalises  her,  holding  it  be- 
yond her  reach,  but  soon  she  has  pulled  down 
his  hand  and  the  ring  is  on  her  finger.  They 
are  dancing  ecstatically  when  PANTALOON 
comes  in  and  has  to  drop  his  stick  because 
she  leaps  into  his  arms.  If  she  were  not  so 
flurried  she  would  see  that  the  aged  man  has 
brought  excitement  with  him  also. 

PANTALOON.  Ah,  Fairy!  Fond  of  her  dad, 
is  she?  Sweetest  little  daughter  ever 
an  old  'tin  had.  (He  sees  HARLEQUIN 
and  is  genial  to  him,  while  HARLEQUIN 
pirouettes  a  How-d'  ye-do.)  You  here, 
Boy;  welcome,  Boy.  (He  is  about  to 
remove  his  hat  in  the  ordinary  way,  but 
HARLEQUIN,  to  save  his  prospective  father- 


PANTALOON  15 

in-law  any  little  trouble,  waves  his  wand 
and  the  hat  goes  to  rest  on  a  door-peg.  The 
little  service  so  humbly  tendered  pleases 
PANTALOON,  and  he  surveys  HARLEQUIN 
with  kindly  condescension.)  Thank  you, 
Boy.  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Boy,  and  an 
artist  too,  in  your  limited  way,  not  here 
(tapping  his  head),  not  in  a  brainy  way, 
but  lower  down  (thoughtfully,  and  includ- 
ing COLUMBINE  in  his  downward  survey). 
That 's  where  your  personality  lies — lower 
down.  (At  the  noble  word  personality 
COLUMBINE  thankfully  crosses  herself,  and 
then  indicates  that  tea  is  ready.)  Tea, 
Fairy?  I  have  such  glorious  news;  but  I 
will  have  a  dish  of  tea  first.  You  will  join 
us,  Boy  ?  Sit  down.  ( They  sit  down  to  tea, 
the  lovers  exchanging  shy,  happy  glances,  but 
soon  PANTALOON  rises  petulantly.)  Fairy, 
there  are  no  sausages !  Tea  without  a 
sausage.  I  am  bitterly  disappointed. 
And  on  a  day,  too,  when  I  have  great 
news.  It 's  almost  more  than  I  can  bear. 


16  PANTALOON 

No  sausages !  (He  is  old  and  is  near 
weeping,  but  COLUMBINE  indicates  with 
her  personality  that  if  he  does  not  forgive  her 
she  must  droop  and  die,  and  soon  again  he  is 
a  magnanimous  father.)  Yes,  yes,  my  pet, 
I  forgive  you.  You  can't  abide  sausages; 
nor  can  you,  Boy.  (They  hide  their 
shamed  heads.)  It 's  not  your  fault. 
Some  are  born  with  the  instinct  for  a 
sausage,  and  some  have  it  not.  (More 
brightly)  Would  you  like  me  to  be  funny 
now,  my  dear,  or  shall  we  have  tea  first? 
(They  prefer  to  have  tea  first,  and  the  cour- 
teous old  man  sits  down  with  them.)  But 
you  do  think  me  funny,  don't  you,  Fairy  ? 
Neither  of  you  can  look  at  me  without 
laughing,  can  you?  Try,  Boy;  try, 
Fairy.  (They  try,  but  fail.  He  is  moved.) 
Thank  you  both,  thank  you  kindly. 
If  the  public  only  knew  how  anxiously 
we  listen  for  the  laugh  they  would  be 
less  grudging  of  it.  (Hastily)  Not  that 
I  have  any  cause  of  complaint.  Every 


PANTALOON  17 

night  I  get  the  laugh  from  my  gener- 
ous patrons,  the  public,  and  always 
by  legitimate  means.  When  I  think 
what  a  favourite  I  am  I  cannot  keep  my 
seat.  (He  rises  proudly.}  I  am  acknowl- 
edged by  all  in  the  know  to  be  a  funny 
old  man.  (He  moves  about  exultantly, 
looking  at  the  portraits  that  are  to  hand 
him  down  to  posterity.)  That  picture  of 
me,  Boy,  was  painted  to  commemorate 
my  being  the  second  funniest  man  on 
earth.  Of  course  Joey  is  the  funniest, 
but  I  am  the  second  funniest.  (They 
have  scarcely  listened;  they  have  been  ex- 
changing delicious  glances  with  face  and 
foot.  But  at  mention  of  the  CLOWN  they 
shudder  a  little,  and  their  hands  seek  each 
other  for  protection.)  This  portrait  I  had 
took — done — in  honour  of  your  birth,  my 
love.  I  call  it  'The  Old  'Un  on  First 
Hearing  that  He  is  a  Father.'  (He 
chuckles  long  before  another  picture  which 
represents  him  in  the  dress  of  ordinary 


18  PANTALOON 

people.)  This  is  me  in  fancy  dress;  it  is 
how  I  went  to  a  fancy-dress  ball.  Your 
mother,  Fairy,  was  with  me,  in  a  long 
skirt!  Very  droll  we  must  have  looked, 
and  very  droll  we  felt.  I  call  to  mind 
we  walked  about  in  this  way;  the  way 
the  public  walks,  you  know.  (In  his 
gaiety  he  imitates  the  walk  of  the  public, 
and  roguish  COLUMBINE  imitates  them  also, 
but  she  loses  her  balance.)  Yes,  try  it. 
Don't  flutter  so  much.  Ah,  it  won't  do, 
Fairy.  Your  natural  way  of  walking  's 
like  a  bird  bobbing  about  on  a  lawn  after 
worms.  Your  mother  was  the  same 
and  when  she  got  low  in  spirits  I  just 
blew  her  about  the  room  till  she  was 
lively  again.  Blow  Fairy  about,  Boy. 
(HARLEQUIN  blows  her  divinely  about  the 
room,  against  the  wall,  on  to  seats  and  off 
them,  and  for  some  sad  happy  moments 
PANTALOON  gazes  at  her,  feeling  that  his 
wife  is  alive  again.  They  think  it  is  the 
auspicious  time  to  tell  him  of  their  love,  but 


PANTALOON  19 

bashfulness  falls  upon  them.  He  only  sees 
that  their  faces  shine.)  Ah,  she  is  happy, 
my  Fairy,  but  I  have  news  that  will  make 
her  happier!  (Curiously)  Fairy,  you 
look  as  if  you  had  something  you  wanted 
to  tell  me.  Have  you  news  too? 
(Tremblingly  she  extends  her  hand  and 
shows  him  the  ring  on  it.  For  a  moment  he 
misunderstands.)  A  ring !  Did  he  give 
you  that?  (She  nods  rapturously.)  Oho, 
oho,  this  makes  me  so  happy.  I  '11  be 
funnier  than  ever,  if  possible.  (At  this 
they  dance  gleefully,  but  his  next  words 
strike  them  cold.)  But,  the  rogue !  He 
said  he  wanted  me  to  speak  to  you  about 
it  first.  That  was  my  news.  Oh,  the 
rogue!  (They  are  scared,  and  sudden 
fear  grips  him.)  There  's  nothing  wrong, 
is  there?  It  was  Joey  gave  you  that 
ring,  wasn't  it,  Fairy?  (She  shakes  her 
head,  and  the  movement  shakes  tears  from 
her  eyes.)  If  it  wasn't  Joey,  who  was  it? 
(HARLEQUIN  steps  forward.)  You !  You 


20  PANTALOON 

are  not  fond  of  Boy,  are  you,  Fairy? 
(She  is  clinging  to  her  lover  now,  and 
PANTALOON  is  a  little  dazed.)  But,  my 
girl,  Joey  wants  you.  A  clown  wants 
you.  When  a  clown  wants  you,  you  are 
not  going  to  fling  yourself  away  on  a 
harlequin,  are  you?  (They  go  on  their 
knees  to  him,  and  he  is  touched,  but  also 
frightened.)  Don't  try  to  get  round  me; 
now  don't.  Joey  would  be  angry  with 
me.  He  can  be  hard  when  he  likes,  Joey 
can.  (In  a  whisper)  Perhaps  he  would 
cane  me !  You  wouldn't  like  to  see  your 
dad  caned,  Fairy.  (COLUMBINE'S  head 
sinks  to  the  floor  in  woe,  and  HARLEQUIN 
eagerly  waves  his  wand.)  Ah,  Boy,  you 
couldn't  defy  him.  He  is  our  head. 
You  can  do  wonderful  things  with  that 
wand,  but  you  can't  fight  Joey  with  it. 
(Sadly  enough  the  wand  is  lowered.)  You 
see,  children,  it  won't  do.  You  have  no 
money,  Boy,  except  the  coppers  Joey 
sometimes  gives  you  in  an  envelope  of  a 


PANTALOON  21 

Friday  night,  and  we  can't  marry  with- 
out money  (with  an  attempt  at  joviality), 
can't  marry  without  money,  Boy,  (HAR- 
LEQUIN with  a  rising  chest  produces  money.) 
Seven  shillings  and  tenpence !  You  have 
been  saving  up,  Boy.  Well  done !  But 
it' s  not  enough.  (COLUMBINE  darts  to 
the  mantelshelf  for  her  money-box  and 
rattles  it  triumphantly.  PANTALOON  looks 
inside  it.)  A  half-crown  and  two  sixpences ! 
It  won't  do,  children.  I  had  a  pound  and 
a  piano-case  when  I  married,  and  yet  I 
was  pinched.  (They  sit  on  the  floor  with 
their  fingers  to  their  eyes,  and  with  diffi- 
culty he  restrains  an  impulse  to  sit  beside 
them.)  Poor  souls !  poor  true  love !  (The 
thought  of  Joey's  power  and  greatness 
overwhelms  him.)  Think  of  Joey's  indivi- 
duality, Fairy.  He  banks  his  money, 
my  love.  If  you  saw  the  boldness  of  Joey 
in  the  bank  when  he  hands  the  slip  across 
the  counter  and  counts  his  money,  my 
pet,  instead  of  being  thankful  for  what- 


PANTALOON 

ever  they  give  him.  And  then  he  puts  out 
his  tongue  at  them !  The  artist  in  him 
makes  him  put  out  his  tongue  at  them. 
For  he  is  a  great  artist,  Joey..  He  is  a 
greater  artist  than  I  am.  I  know  it  and 
I  admit  it.  He  has  a  touch  that  is 
beyond  me.  (Imploringly)  Did  you  say 
you  would  marry  him,  my  love  ?  (She  does 
not  raise  her  head,  and  he  continues  with  a 
new  break  in  his  voice.)  It  is  not  his 
caning  me  I  am  so  afraid  of,  but — but 
I  'm  oldish  now,  Fairy,  even  for  an  old 
'un,  and  there  is  something  I  must  tell 
you.  I  have  tried  to  keep  it  from  my- 
self, but  I  know.  It  is  this:  I  am  afraid, 
my  sweet,  I  am  not  so  funny  as  I  used  to 
be.  (She  encircles  his  knees  in  dissent.) 
Yes,  it 's  true,  and  Joey  knows  it.  On 
Monday  I  had  to  fall  into  the  barrel  three 
times  before  I  got  the  laugh.  Joey  saw ! 
If  Joey  were  to  dismiss  me  I  could  never 
get  another  shop.  I  would  be  like  a  dog 
without  a  master.  He  has  been  my 


PANTALOON  23 

master  so  long.  I  have  put  by  nearly 
enough  to  keep  me,  but  oh,  Fairy,  the 
awfulness  of  not  being  famous  any  longer. 
Living  on  without  seeing  my  kind  friends 
in  front.  To  think  of  my  just  being 
one  of  the  public,  of  my  being  pointed  at 
in  the  streets  as  the  old  'un  that  was 
fired  out  of  the  company  because  he 
missed  his  laughs.  And  that 's  what 
Joey  will  bring  to  pass  if  you  don't  marry 
him,  my  girl.  (It  is  an  appeal  for  mercy, 
and  COLUMBINE  is  his  loving  daughter. 
Her  face  is  wan,  but  she  tries  to  smile.  She 
hugs  the  ring  to  her  breast,  and  then  gives 
it  back  to  HARLEQUIN.  They  try  to  dance 
a  last  embrace,  but  their  legs  are  leaden. 
He  kisses]  her  cheeks  and  her  foot  and  goes 
away  broken-hearted.  The  brave  girl  puts 
her  arm  round  her  father's  neck  and  hides 
her  wet  face.  He  could  not  look  at  it 
though  it  were  exposed,  for  he  has  more  to 
tell.)  I  haven't  told  you  the  worst  yet, 
my  love.  I  didn't  dare  tell  you  the  worst 


24  PANTALOON 

till  Boy  had  gone.  Fairy,  the  marriage 
is  to  be  to-day !  Joey  has  arranged  it 
all.  It 's  his  humour,  and  we  dare  not 
thwart  him.  He  is  coming  here  to  take 
you  to  the  wedding.  (In  a  tremble  she 
draws  away  from  him.)  I  haven't  been 
a  bad  father  to  you,  have  I,  my  girl? 
When  we  were  waiting  for  you  before 
you  were  born,  your  mother  and  I,  we 
used  to  wonder  what  you  would  be  like, 
and  I — it  was  natural,  for  I  was  always 
an  ambitious  man — I  hoped  you  would 
be  a  clown.  But  that  wasn't  to  be,  and 
when  the  doctor  came  to  me — I  was  walk- 
ing up  and  down  this  room  in  a  tremble, 
for  my  darling  was  always  delicate — when 
the  doctor  came  to  me  and  said,  *I  con- 
gratulate you,  sir,  on  being  the  father 
of  a  fine  little  columbine,'  I  never  uttered 
one  word  of  reproach  to  him  or  to  you 
or  to  her.  (There  is  a  certain  grandeur 
about  the  old  man  as  he  calls  attention  to 
the  nobility  of  his  conduct,  but  it  falls  from 


PANTALOON  25 

him  on  the  approach  of  the  CLOWN.  We 
hear  Joey  before  we  see  him:  he  is  singing 
a  snatch  of  one  of  his  triumphant  ditties, 
less  for  his  own  pleasure  perhaps  than  to 
warn  the  policeman  to  be  on  the  alert. 
He  has  probably  driven  to  the  end  of  the 
street,  and  then  walked.  A  tremor  runs 
through  COLUMBINE  at  sound  of  him,  but 
PANTALOON  smiles,  a  foolish,  ecstatic 
smile.  Joey  has  always  been  his  hero.) 
Be  ready  to  laugh,  my  girl.  Joey  will 
be  angry  if  he  doesn't  get  the  laugh. 

(The  CLOWN  struts  in,  as  confident  of 
welcome  as  if  he  were  the  announce- 
ment of  dinner.  He  wears  his  motley 
like  an  order.  A  silk  hat  and  an 
eye-glass  indicate  his  superior  social 
position.  A  sausage  protruding  from 
a  pocket  shows  that  he  can  unbend  at 
times.  A  masterful  man  when  you 
don't  applaud  enough,  he  is  at  present 
in  uproarious  spirits,  as  if  he  had 
just  looked  in  a  mirror.  At  first  he 


26  PANTALOON 

affects  not  to  see  his  host,  to  PANTA- 
LOON'S great  entertainment.) 
CLOWN.  Miaw,  miaw ! 

PANTALOON  (bent  with  merriment).    He  is  at 
his  funniest,  quite  at  his  funniest ! 

(CLOWN    kicks    him    hard    but    good- 
naturedly,  and  PANTALOON  falls  to 
the  ground.) 
CLOWN.  Miaw! 

PANTALOON  (reverently).  What  an  artist! 
CLOWN  (pretends  to  see  COLUMBINE  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.     In  a  masterpiece  of 
funniness  he  starts  back,  like  one  dazzled 
by  a  naked  light).  Oh,  Jiminy  Crinkles ! 
Oh,  I  say,  what  a  beauty ! 
PANTALOON.  There  's  nobody  like  him ! 
CLOWN.  It  Js  Fairy.    It 's  my  little  Fairy. 

{Strange,  but  all  her  admiration  for 
this  man  has  gone.  He  represents 
nothing  to  her  now  but  wealth  and 
social  rank.  He  ogles  her,  and  she 
shrinks  from  him  as  if  he  were  some- 
,  thing  nauseous.) 


PANTALOON  27 

PANTALOON  (warningly).  Fairy! 

CLOWN    (showing   sharp   teeth).  Hey,  what's 

this,  old  'un?     Don't  she  admire  me? 
PANTALOON.  Not  admire  you,  Joey  ?    That 's 

a  good  'un.    Joey  's  at  his  best  to-day. 
CLOWN.  Ain't   she   ready   to    come   to   her 

wedding  ? 

PANTALOON.  She  's  ready,  Joey. 
CLOWN    (producing    a    cane,    and    lowering). 

Have  you  told  her  what  will  happen  to 

you  if  she  ain't  ready  ? 
PANTALOON    (backing).  I  've   told   her,   Joey 

(supplicating).     Get  your  hat,  Fairy. 
CLOWN.  Why  ain't  she  dancing  wi'  joy  and 

pride  ? 
PANTALOON.  She  is,  Joey,  she  is. 

(COLUMBINE  attempts  to  dance  with  joy 

and  pride,  and  the  CLOWN  has  been 

so  long  used  to  adulation  that  he  is 

deceived.) 

CLOWN    (amiable    again).  Parson 's    waiting. 

Oh,  what  a  lark. 
PANTALOON  (with  a  feeling  that  lark  is  not 


28  PANTALOON 

perhaps  the  happiest  word  for  the  occasion). 
Get  your  things,  Fairy. 

CLOWN  (riding  on  a  chair}.  Give  me  some- 
thing first,  my  lovey-dovey.  I  shuts  my 
eyes  and  opens  my  mouth,  and  waits 
for  what 's  my  doo.  (She  knows  what  he 
means,  and  it  is  sacrilege  to  her.  But  her 
father's  arms  are  extended  beseechingly. 
She  gives  the  now  abhorred  countenance 
a  kiss,  and  runs  from  the  room.  The 
CLOWN  plays  with  the  kiss  as  if  it  were  a 
sausage,  a  sight  abhorrent  to  HARLEQUIN, 
who  has  stolen  in  by  the  window.  Fain 
would  he  strike,  but  though  he  is  wearing 
his  mask,  which  is  a  sign  that  he  is  invisible, 
he  fears  to  do  so.  As  if  conscious  of  the 
unseen  presence,  the  CLOWN'S  brow  darkens.) 
Joey,  when  I  came  in  I  saw  Boy  hanging 
around  outside. 

PANTALOON  (ill  at  ease).  Boy?  What  can 
he  be  wanting  ? 

CLOWN.  I  know  what  he  is  wanting,  and 
I  know  what  he  will  get.  (He  brandishes 


PANTALOON  29 

the  cane  threateningly.  At  the  same 
moment  the  wedding  bells  begin  to  peal.) 

PANTALOON.  Hark! 

CLOWN  (with  grotesque  accompaniment).  My 
wedding  bells.  Fairy's  wedding  bells. 
There  they  go  again,  here  we  are  again, 
there  they  go  again,  here  we  are  again. 
(COLUMBINE  returns.  She  has  tried  to 
hide  the  tears  on  her  cheeks  behind  a 
muslin  veil.  There  is  a  melancholy  bouquet 
in  her  hand.  She  passionately  desires  to 
be  like  the  respectable  public  on  her  marriage 
day.  HARLEQUIN  raises  his  mask  for  a 
moment  that  she  may  see  him,  and  they 
look  long  at  each  other,  those  two,  who  are 
never  to  have  anything  lovely  to  look  at 
again.  'Won't  he  save  her  yet?'  says 
her  face,  but  '  /  am  afraid '  says  his.  Still 
the  bells  are  jangling.) 

PANTALOON.  My  girl. 

CLOWN.  Mine.  (He  kisses  her,  but  it  is  the 
sausage  look  that  is  in  his  eyes.  PANTA- 
LOON, bleeding  for  his  girl,  raises  his  staff 


30  PANTALOON 

to  strike  him,  but  COLUMBINE  will  not  have 
the  sacrifice.  She  gives  her  arm  to  the 
CLOWN.)  To  the  wedding.  To  the 
wedding.  Old  Jun,  lead  on,  and  we 
will  follow  thee.  Oh,  what  a  lark ! 

(They  are  going  toward  the  door,  but 
in  this  supreme  moment  love  turns 
timid  Boy  into  a  man.  He  waves 
his  mysterious  wand  over  them,  so 
that  all  three  are  suddenly  bereft  of 
movement.  They  are  like  frozen 
figures.  He  removes  his  mask  and 
smiles  at  them  with  a  terrible  face. 
Fondly  and  leisurely  he  gathers  COL- 
UMBINE in  his  arms  and  carries  her 
out  by  the  window.  The  CLOWN  and 
PANTALOON  remain  there,  as  if  struck 
in  the  act  of  taking  a  step  forward. 
The  wedding  bells  are  still  pealing.) 

The  curtain  falls  for  a  moment  only. 
It  rises  on  the  same  room  several 
years  later. 


PANTALOON  31 

The  same  room,  as  one  may  say  of 
a  suit  of  clothes,  out  of  which  the 
whilom  tenant  has  long  departed, 
that  they  are  the  same  man.  A 
room  cold  to  the  touch,  dilapidated, 
fragments  of  the  ceiling  fallen  and 
left  where  they  fell,  wall-paper  peel- 
ing damply,  portraits  of  PANTA- 
LOON taken  down  to  sell,  unsaleable, 
and  never  rehung.  Once  such  a 
clean  room  that  its  ghost  to-day  might 
be  COLUMBINE  chasing  a  speck  of 
dust,  it  is  now  untended.  Even  the 
windows  are  grimy,  which  tells  a 
tale  of  PANTALOON'S  final  capitula- 
tion; while  any  heart  was  left  him 
we  may  be  sure  he  kept  the  windows 
clean  so  that  the  policeman  might 
spy  upon  him.  Perhaps  the  police- 
man has  gone  from  the  street,  bored, 
nothing  doing  there  now. 

It  is  evening  and  winter  time,  and  the 
ancient  man  is  moving  listlessly 


32  PANTALOON 

about  his  room,  mechanically  blowing 
life  into  his  hands  as  if  he  had  for- 
gotten that  there  is  no  real  reason  why 
there  should  be  life  in  them.  The 
clothes  COLUMBINE  used  to  brush 
with  such  care  are  slovenly,  the  hair 
she  so  often  smoothed  with  all  her 
love  is  unkempt.  He  is  smaller,  a 
man  who  has  shrunk  into  himself  in 
shame,  not  so  much  shame  that  he  is 
uncared  for  as  that  he  is  forgotten. 

He  is  sitting  forlorn  by  the  fire  when 

the    door    opens    to    admit    his  first 

visitor  for  years.     It  is  the  CLOWN, 

just  sufficiently  stouter  to  look  more 

resplendent.     The  drum,  so  to  say,  is 

larger.     He    gloats    over    the   bowed 

PANTALOON  like  a  spiteful  boy. 

CLOWN   (poking  PANTALOON  with  his  cane). 

Who  can  this  miserable  ancient  man  be? 

(Visited  at  last  by  some  one  who 
knows  him,  PANTALOON  rises  in  a 
surge  of  joy.) 


PANTALOON  S3 

PANTALOON.  You    have    come    back,    Joey, 

after  all  these  years  ! 
CLOWN.  Hands  off.     I  came  here,  my  good 

fellow,  to  inquire  for  a  Mr.  Joseph. 
PANTALOON    (shuddering).  Yes,    that's    me; 

that 's  all  that 's  left  of  me;  Mr.  Joseph ! 

Me  that  used  to  be  Joey. 
CLOWN.  I    think    I    knew    you    once,    Mr. 

Joseph  ? 
PANTALOON.  Joey,  you  're  hard  on  me.     It 

wasn't  my  fault  that  Boy  tricked  us  and 

ran  off  wi'  her. 
CLOWN.  May  I  ask,  Mr.  Joseph,  were  you 

ever  on  the  boards  ? 
PANTALOON.  This  to  me  as  was  your  right 

hand ! 
CLOWN.  I  seem  to  call  to  mind  something 

like  you  as  used  to  play  the  swell. 
PANTALOON  (fiercely).  It's     a     lie!    I     was 

born  a  Pantaloon,  and  a  Pantaloon  I  '11  die. 
CLOWN.  Yes,   I   heard   you  was   dead,   Mr. 

Joseph.     Everybody     knows     it     except 

yourself.     (He  gnaws  a  sausage.) 


34  PANTALOON 

PANTALOON  (greedily).  Gie  me  a  bite,  Joey. 
CLOWN  (relentless).  I    only    bites    with    the 

profession.       I     never     bites     with     the 

public. 
PANTALOON.  What  brought  you  here?    Just 

to  rub  it  in  ? 
CLOWN.  Let 's  say  I  came  to  make  inquiries 

after  the  happy  pair. 
PANTALOON.  It 's    years    and    years,    Joey, 

since  they  ran  away,  and  I  've  never  seen 

them  since. 

CLOWN.  Heard  of  them  ? 
PANTALOON.  Yes,   I'  ve  heard.    They  're  in 

distant  parts. 

CLOWN.  Answer  their  letters  ? 
PANTALOON  (darkening).  No. 
CLOWN.  They  will  be  doing  well,  Mr.  Joseph, 

without  me  ? 
PANTALOON  (boastfully).  At    first    they    did 

badly,    but    when    the    managers    heard 

Fairy   was   my   daughter   they   said   the 

daughter  o'  such  a  famous  old  *un  was 

sure  to  draw  by  reason  of  her  father's 


PANTALOON  35 

name.     And  they  print  the  name  of  her 

father  in  big  letters. 
CLOWN   (rapping  it  out) .  It 's  you  that  lie 

now.     I    know    about    them.     They    go 

starving   like    vagabonds   from   town    to 

town. 
PANTALOON.  Ay,  it 's  true.    They  write  that 

they  're  starving. 
CLOWN.  And  they  've  got  a  kid  to  add  to 

their     misery.     All     vagabonds,     father, 

mother,  and  kid. 
PANTALOON.  Rub  it  in,  Joey. 
CLOWN.  You  looks  as  if  you  would  soon  be 

starving  too. 
PANTALOON     (not    without    dignity).       I  'm 

pinched. 
CLOWN.  Well,  well,  I  'm  a  kindly  soul,  and 

what  brought  me  here  was  to  make  you 

an  offer. 

PANTALOON  (glistening).  A  shop? 
CLOWN.  For  old  times'  sake. 
PANTALOON  (with  indecent  eagerness).  To  be 

old  'un  again  ? 


36  PANTALOON 

CLOWN.  No,  you  crock,  but  to  carry  a  sand- 
wich-board in  the  street  wi'  my  new  old 
'un's  name  on  it. 

(Pantaloon    raises    his    withered    arm, 
but  he  lets  it  fall.) 

PANTALOON.  May  you  be  forgiven  for  that, 
Joey. 

CLOWN.  Miaw! 

PANTALOON  (who  is  near  his  end).  Joey, 
there  stands  humbled  before  you  an  old 
artist. 

CLOWN.  Never  an  artist. 

PANTALOON  (firmly).  An  artist — at  present 
disengaged. 

CLOWN.  Forgotten — clean  forgotten. 

PANTALOON  (bowing  his  head).  Yes,  that 's  it — 
forgotten.  Once  famous — now  forgotten. 
Joey,  they  don't  know  me  even  at  the 
sausage  -  shop.  I  am  just  one  of  the 
public.  My  worst  time  is  when  we  should 
be  going  on  the  stage,  and  I  think  I  hear 
the  gallery  boys  calling  for  the  old  'un — 
'Bravo,  old  'un' !  Then  I  sort  of  break 


PANTALOON  37 

up.     I  sleep  bad  o'  nights.     I  think  sleep 
would  come  to  me  if  I  could  rub  my  back 
on  the  scenery  again.     (He  shudders.)  But 
the  days  are  longer  than  the  nights.     I 
allus  see  how  I  am  to  get  through  to-day, 
but  I  sit  thinking  and  thinking  how  I 
am  to  get  through  to-morrow. 
CLOWN.  Poor  old  crock.     Well,  so  long. 
PANTALOON    (offering   him   the   poker).  Joey, 
gie  me  one  rub  before  you  go — for  old 
times'  sake. 
CLOWN.  You  '11  never  be  rubbed  by  a  clown 

again,  Mr.  Joseph. 

PANTALOON.  Call  me  Joey  once — say  'Good- 
bye, old  'un' — for  old  times'  sake. 
CLOWN.  You  will  never  be  called  Joey  or  old 
'un  by  a  clown  again,  Mr.  Joseph. 

(With  a  noble  gesture  PANTALOON  bids 
him  begone  and  the  CLOWN  miaws  and 
goes,  twisting  a  sausage  in  his  mouth 
as  if  it  were  a  cigar.  So  he  passes 
from  our  sight,  funny  to  the  last,  or 
never  funny,  an  equally  tragic  figure. 


38  PANTALOON 

PANTALOON  rummages  in  the  wicker 
basket  among  his  gods  and  strokes 
them  lovingly,  a  painted  goose,  his 
famous  staff,  a  bladder  on  a  stick. 
He  does  not  know  that  he  is  hugging 
the  bladder  to  his  cold  breast  as  he 
again  crouches  by  the  fire. 

The  door  opens,  and  COLUMBINE  and 
HARLEQUIN  peep  in,  prepared  to  re- 
ceive a  blow  for  welcome.  Their  faces 
are  hollow  and  their  clothes  in  rags, 
and,  saddest  of  all,  they  cannot  dance 
in.  They  walk  in  like  the  weary  public. 
COLUMBINE  looks  as  if  she  could  walk 
as  far  as  her  father's  feet,  but  never 
any  farther.  With  them  is  the  child. 
This  is  the  great  surprise:  HE  is  A 
CLOWN.  They  sign  to  the  child 
to  intercede  for  them,  but  though  only 
a  baby,  he  is  a  clown,  and  he  must 
do  it  in  his  own  way.  He  pats  his 
nose,  grins  deliciously  with  the  wrong 
parts  of  his  face,  and  dives  beneath 


PANTALOON  39 

the  table.  PANTALOON  looks  round 
and  sees  his  daughter  on  her  knees 
before  him.) 

PANTALOON.  You !  Fairy !  Come  back ! 
(For  a  moment  he  is  to  draw  her  to  him, 
then  he  remembers.)  No,  I  '11  have  none 
of  you.  It  was  you  as  brought  me  to 
this.  Begone,  I  say  begone.  (They  are 
backing  meekly  to  the  door.)  Stop  a 
minute.  Little  Fairy,  is  it  true — is  it 
true  my  Fairy  has  a  kid?  (She  nods, 
with  glistening  eyes  that  say  'Can  you  put 
me  out  now?9  The  baby  peers  from  under 
the  table,  and  rubs  PANTALOON'S  legs  with 
the  poker.  Poor  little  baby,  he  is  the  last 
of  the  clowns,  and  knows  not  what  is  in 
store  for  him.  PANTALOON  trembles,  it 
is  so  long  since  he  has  been  rubbed.  He 
dare  not  look  down.)  Fairy,  is  it  the  kid  ? 
(She  nods  again;  the  moment  has  come.) 
My  Fairy's  kid !  (Somehow  he  has 
always  taken  for  granted  that  his  grand- 
child is  merely  a  columbine.  If  the  child 


40  PANTALOON 

had  been  something  greater  they  would  all 
have  got  a  shop  again  and  served  under 
him.)  Oh,  Fairy,  if  only  he  had  been  a 
clown ! 

(Now  you  see  how  it  is  going.     The 

babe  emerges,  and  he  is  a  clown. 
Just  for  a  moment  PANTALOON  cries. 
Then  the  babe  is  tantalising  him 
with  a  sausage.  PANTALOON  revolves 
round  him  like  a  happy  teetotum. 
Who  so  gay  now  as  COLUMBINE  and 
HARLEQUIN,  dancing  merrily  as  if  it 
were  again  the  morning?  Oh  what 
a  lark  is  life.  Ring  down  the  cur- 
tain quickly,  Mr.  Prompter,  before 
we  see  them  all  swept  into  the  dust- 
heap). 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

IF  quite  convenient  (as  they  say  about 
cheques)  you  are  to  conceive  that  the  scene  is 
laid  in  your  own  house,  and  that  HARRY  SIMS 
is  you.  Perhaps  the  ornamentation  of  the 
house  is  a  trifle  ostentatious,  but  if  you 
cavil  at  that  we  are  willing  to  re-decorate: 
you  don't  get  out  of  being  HARRY  SIMS  on 
a  mere  matter  of  plush  and  dados.  It  pleases 
us  to  make  him  a  city  man,  but  (rather  than 
lose  you)  he  can  be  turned  with  a  scrape  of  the 
pen  into  a  K.C.,  fashionable  doctor.  Secretary 
of  State,  or  what  you  will.  We  conceive  him 
of  a  pleasant  rotundity  with  a  thick  red  neck, 
but  we  shall  waive  that  point  if  you  know  him 
to  be  thin. 

It  is  that  day  in  your  career  when  everything 
went  wrong  just  when  everything  seemed  to  be 
superlatively  right. 

43 


44     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

In  HARRY'S  case  it  was  a  woman  who  did 
the  mischief.  She  came  to  him  in  his  great 
hour  and  told  him  she  did  not  admire  him. 
Of  course  he  turned  her  out  of  the  house  and 
was  soon  himself  again,  but  it  spoilt  the  morn- 
ing for  him.  This  is  the  subject  of  the  play, 
and  quite  enough  too. 

HARRY  is  to  receive  the  honour  of  knight- 
hood in  a  few  days,  and  we  discover  him  in 
the  sumptuous  *  snuggery'  of  his  home  in 
Kensington  (or  is  it  Westminster?),  rehearsing 
the  ceremony  with  his  wife.  They  have  been 
at  it  all  the  morning,  a  pleasing  occupation. 
MRS.  SIMS  (as  we  may  call  her  for  the  last 
time,  as  it  were,  and  strictly  as  a  good-natured 
joke)  is  wearing  her  presentation  gown,  and  per- 
sonates the  august  one  who  is  about  to  dub  her 
HARRY  knight.  She  is  seated  regally.  Her 
jewelled  shoulders  proclaim  aloud  her  husband's 
generosity.  She  must  be  an  extraordinarily 
proud  and  happy  woman,  yet  she  has  a  drawn 
face  and  shrinking  ways  as  if  there  were  some 
one  near  her  of  whom  she  is  afraid.  She 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     45 

claps  her  hands,  as  the  signal  to  HARRY. 
He  enters  bowing,  and  with  a  graceful 
swerve  of  the  leg.  He  is  only  partly  in 
costume,  the  sword  and  the  real  stockings  not 
having  arrived  yet.  With  a  gliding  motion 
that  is  only  delayed  while  one  leg  makes  up 
on  the  other,  he  reaches  his  wife,  and,  going 
on  one  knee,  raises  her  hand  superbly  to  his 
lips.  She  taps  him  on  the  shoulder  with  a 
paper-knife  and  says  huskily,  'Rise,  Sir 
Harry.'  He  rises,  bows,  and  glides  about 
the  room,  going  on  his  knees  to  various  articles 
of  furniture,  and  rises  from  each  a  knight. 
It  is  a  radiant  domestic  scene,  and  HARRY 
is  as  dignified  as  if  he  knew  that  royalty  was 
rehearsing  it  at  the  other  end. 

SIR   HARRY    (complacently).  Did   that   seem 

all  right,  eh  ? 

LADY  SIMS  (much  relieved).  I  think  perfect. 
SIR  HARRY.  But  was  it  dignified  ? 
LADY  SIMS.  Oh,  very.     And  it  will  be  still 

more  so  when  you  have  the  sword. 


46     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

SIR  HARRY.  The  sword  will  lend  it  an  air. 
There  are  really  the  five  moments — 
(suiting  the  action  to  the  word) — the  glide 
— the  dip — the  kiss — the  tap — and  you 
back  out  a  knight.  It 's  short,  but  it 's 
a  very  beautiful  ceremony.  (Kindly) 
Anything  you  can  suggest  ? 

LADY  SIMS.  No — oh  no.     (Nervously,  seeing 
him  pause  to  kiss  the  tassel  of  a  cushion). 
You  don't  think  you  have  practised  till 
you  know  what  to  do  almost  too  well  ? 
(He  has  been  in  a  blissful  temper,  but 
such    niggling    criticism    would    try 
any  man.) 

SIR  HARRY.  I  do  not.  Don't  talk  nonsense. 
Wait  till  your  opinion  is  asked  for. 

LADY  SIMS  (abashed).  I  'm  sorry,  Harry. 
(A  perfect  butler  appears  and  presents  a 
card.)  'The  Flora  Type- Writing  Agency.' 

SIR  HARRY.  Ah,  yes.  I  telephoned  them 
to  send  some  one.  A  woman,  I  suppose, 
Tombes  ? 

TOMBES.  Yes,  Sir  Harry. 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     47 

SIR  HARRY.  Show  her  in  here.  (He  has  very 
lately  become  a  stickler  for  etiquette.)  And, 
Tombes,  strictly  speaking,  you  know,  I 
am  not  Sir  Harry  till  Thursday. 

TOMBES.  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  it  is  such  a 
satisfaction  to  us. 

SIR  HARRY  (good-naturedly).  Ah,  they  like 
it  downstairs,  do  they  ? 

TOMBES  (unbending).  Especially  the  females, 
Sir  Harry. 

SIR  HARRY.  Exactly.  You  can  show  her  in, 
Tombes.  (The  butler  departs  on  his  mighty 
task.)  You  can  tell  the  woman  what  she 
is  wanted  for,  Emmy,  while  I  change.  (He 
is  too  modest  to  boast  about  himself,  and 
prefers  to  keep  a  wife  in  the  house  for  that 
purpose.)  You  can  tell  her  the  sort  of 
things  about  me  that  will  come  better  from 
you.  (Smiling  happily)  You  heard  what 
Tombes  said,  'Especially  the  females.' 
And  he  is  right.  Success !  The  women 
like  it  even  better  than  the  men.  And 
rightly.  For  they  share.  You  share,  Lady 


48     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

Sims.  Not  a  woman  will  see  that  gown 
without  being  sick  with  envy  of  it.  I  know 
them.  Have  all  our  lady  friends  in  to  see 
it.  It  will  make  them  ill  for  a  week. 

(These  sentiments  carry  him  of  light- 
heartedly,  and  presently  the  disturbing 
element  is  shown  in.  She  is  a  mere 
typist,  dressed  in  uncommonly  good 
taste,  but  at  contemptibly  small  ex- 
pense, and  she  is  carrying  her  type- 
writer in  a  friendly  way  rather  than 
as  a  badge  of  slavery,  as  of  course  it  is. 
Her  eye  is  clear;  and  in  odd  contrast 
to  LADY  SIMS,  she  is  self-reliant  and 
serene.) 
KATE  (respectfully,  but  she  should  have  waited 

to  be  spoken  to) .  Good  morning,  madam. 
LADY  SIMS  (in  her  nervous  way,  and  scarcely 
noticing  that  the  typist  is  a  little  too  ready 
with  her  tongue).  Good  morning,  (As  a 
first  impression  she  rather  likes  the  woman, 
and  the  woman,  though  it  is  scarcely  worth 
mentioning,  rather  likes  her.  LADY  SIMS 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     49 

has  a  maid  for  buttoning  and  unbuttoning 
her,  and  probably  another  for  waiting  on  the 
maid,  and  she  gazes  with  a  little  envy  per- 
haps at  a  woman  who  does  things  for  herself.) 
Is  that  the  type-writing  machine  ? 

KATE  (who  is  getting  it  ready  for  use).  Yes 
(not  'Yes,  madam,9  as  it  ought  to  be).  I 
suppose  if  I  am  to  work  here  I  may  take 
this  off.  I  get  on  better  without  it.  (She 
is  referring  to  her  hat.) 

LADY  SIMS.  Certainly.  (But  the  hat  is 
already  off.)  I  ought  to  apologise  for  my 
gown.  I  am  to  be  presented  this  week, 
and  I  was  trying  it  on.  (Her  tone  is  not 
really  apologetic.  She  is  rather  clinging 
to  the  glory  of  her  gown,  wistfully,  as  if 
not  absolutely  certain,  you  know,  that  it  is 
a  glory.) 

KATE.  It  is  beautiful,  if  I  may  presume  to 
say  so.  (She  frankly  admires  it.  She 
probably  has  a  best,  and  a  second  best  of 
her  own:  that  sort  of  thing.) 

LADY  SIMS  (with  a  flush  of  pride  in  the  gown) . 


50     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

Yes,  it  is  very  beautiful.  (The  beauty  of 
it  gives  her  courage.)  Sit  down,  please. 

KATE  (the  sort  of  woman  who  would  have  sat 
down  in  any  case).  I  suppose  it  is  some 
copying  you  want  done?  I  got  no  par- 
ticulars. I  was  told  to  come  to  this 
address,  but  that  was  all. 

LADY  SIMS  (almost  with  the  humility  of  a 
servant).  Oh,  it  is  not  work  for  me,  it  is 
for  my  husband,  and  what  he  needs  is  not 
exactly  copying.  (Swelling,  for  she  is  proud 
of  HARRY.)  He  wants  a  number  of  letters 
answered — hundreds  of  them — letters  and 
telegrams  of  congratulation. 

KATE  (as  if  it  were  all  in  the  day's  work). 
Yes? 

LADY  SIMS  (remembering  that  HARRY  expects 
every  wife  to  do  her  duty).  My  husband 
is  a  remarkable  man.  He  is  about  to  be 
knighted.  (Pause,  but  KATE  does  not 
fall  to  the  floor.)  He  is  to  be  knighted  for 
his  services  to — (on  reflection) — for  his  ser- 
vices. (She  is  conscious  that  she  is  not 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     51 

doing   HARRY  justice.)     He   can   explain 
it  so  much  better  than  I  can. 
KATE  (in  her  business-like  way).  And  I  am 

to  answer  the  congratulations  ? 
LADY  SIMS  (afraid  that  it  will  be  a  hard  task). 

Yes. 
KATE  (blithely).  It  is  work  I  have  had  some 

experience  of.     (She  proceeds  to  type.) 
LADY   SIMS.  But   you   can't   begin   till   you 

know  what  he  wants  to  say. 
KATE.  Only    a    specimen    letter.     Won't    it 

be  the  usual  thing  ? 
LADY  SIMS  (to  whom  this  is  a  new  idea).  Is 

there  a  usual  thing  ? 
KATE.  Oh,  yes. 

(She  continues  to  type,  and  LADY  SIMS, 
half-mesmerised,  gazes  at  her  nimble 
fingers.  The  useless  woman  watches 
the  useful  one,  and  she  sighs,  she  could 
not  tell  why.) 

LADY  SIMS.  How  quickly  you  do  it!  It 
must  be  delightful  to  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing, and  to  do  it  well. 


52     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

KATE  (thankfully}.  Yes,  it  is  delightful. 

LADY  SIMS  (again  remembering  the  source  of 
all  her  greatness}.  But,  excuse  me,  I  don't 
think  that  will  be  any  use.  My  husband 
wants  me  to  explain  to  you  that  his  is  an 
exceptional  case.  He  did  not  try  to  get 
this  honour  in  any  way.  It  was  a  com- 
plete surprise  to  him 

KATE  (who  is  a  practical  Kate  and  no  dealer 
in  sarcasm) .  That  is  what  I  have  written. 

LADY  SIMS  (in  whom  sarcasm  would  meet  a 
dead  wall) .  But  how  could  you  know  ? 

KATE.  I  only  guessed. 

LADY  SIMS.  Is  that  the  usual  thing  ? 

KATE.  Oh,  yes. 

LADY  SIMS.  They  don't  try  to  get  it  ? 

KATE.  I  don't  know.  That  is  what  we  are 
told  to  say  in  the  letters. 

(To  her  at  present  the  only  important 
thing  about  the  letters  is  that  they  are 
ten  shillings  the  hundred.) 

LADY  SIMS  (returning  to  surer  ground}.  I 
should  explain  that  my  husband  is  not 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK      53 

a  man  who  cares  for  honours.     So  long 

as  he  does  his  duty 

KATE.  Yes,  I  have  been  putting  that  in. 
LADY  SIMS.  Have  you?     But  he  particularly 

wants  it  to  be  known  that  he  would  have 

declined  a  title  were  it  not 

KATE.  I  have  got  it  here. 

LADY  SIMS.  What  have  you  got  ? 

KATE  (reading).  'Indeed,  I  would  have  asked 

to  be  allowed  to  decline  had  it  not  been 

that  I  want  to  please  my  wife.' 
LADY    SIMS    (heavily).  But    how    could    you 

know  it  was  that  ? 
KATE.  Is  it  ? 
LADY  SIMS  (who  after  all  is  the  one  with  the 

right  to  ask  questions).  Do  they  all  accept 

it  for  that  reason  ? 
KATE.  That  is  what  we  are  told  to  say  in 

the  letters. 
LADY  SIMS   (thoughtlessly).  It  is  quite  as  if 

you  knew  my  husband. 
KATE.  I  assure  you,  I  don't  even  know  his 

name. 


54     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

LADY  SIMS  (suddenly  showing  that  she  knows 
him) .  Oh,  he  wouldn't  like  that ! 

(And  it  is  here  that  HARRY  re-enters  in 
his   city   garments,    looking   so   gay, 
feeling  so  jolly  that  we  bleed  for  him. 
However,   the  annoying   KATHERINE 
is  to  get  a  shock  also.) 
LADY  SIMS.  This  is  the  lady,  Harry. 
SIR    HARRY    (shooting    his  cuffs).   Yes,   yes. 
Good  morning,  my  dear. 

(Then  they  see  each  other,  and  their 
mouths  open,  but  not  for  words. 
After  the  first  surprise  KATE  seems 
to  find  some  humour  in  the  situation, 
but  HARRY  lowers  like  a  thunder- 
cloud.) 
LADY  SIMS  (who  has  seen  nothing).  I  have 

been  trying  to  explain  to  her 

SIR  HARRY.  Eh — what?  (He  controls  him- 
self.) Leave  it  to  me,  Emmy;  I  '11  attend 
to  her. 

(LADY    SIMS  goes,  with  a  dread  fear 
that  somehow  she  has  vexed  her  lord, 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     55 

and  then  HABRY  attends  to  the  in- 
truder.) 

SIR  HARRY  (with  concentrated  scorn).  You ! 
KATE   (as  if  agreeing  with  him).  Yes,  it  *s 

funny. 
SIR  HARRY.  The  shamelessness  of  your  daring 

to  come  here. 
KATE.  Believe  me,  it  is  not  less  a  surprise 

to  me  than  it  is  to  you.     I  was  sent  here 

in  the  ordinary  way  of  business.     I  was 

given  only  the  number  of  the  house.     I 

was  not  told  the  name. 
SIR   HARRY    (withering   her).    The   ordinary 

way  of  business !    This  is  what  you  have 

fallen  to — a  typist ! 
KATE  (unwithered) .  Think  of  it ! 
SIR    HARRY.      After    going    through    worse 

straits,  I  '11  be  bound. 
KATE    (with    some    grim    memories).    Much 

worse  straits. 
SIR    HARRY    (alas,    laughing    coarsely).    My 

congratulations ! 
KATE.  Thank  you,  Harry. 


56     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

SIR   HARRY    (who  is   annoyed,   as   any   man 

would     be,     not     to     find     her     abject). 

Eh?     What    was    that    you    called    me, 

madam  ? 
KATE.    Isn't    it    Harry?    On    my    soul,    I 

almost  forget. 
SIR    HARRY.    It    isn't    Harry    to    you.    My 

name  is  Sims,  if  you  please. 
KATE.   Yes,   I   had   not   forgotten   that.    It 

was  my  name,  too,  you  see. 
SIR   HARRY    (in   his   best   manner).     It   was 

your   name   till   you   forfeited   the   right 

to  bear  it. 
KATE.  Exactly. 
SIR  HARRY  (gloating).     I  was  furious  to  find 

you    here,    but    on    second    thoughts    it 

pleases    me.     (From    the    depths    of    his 

moral   nature)    There   is    a    grim    justice 

in  this. 

KATE  (sympathetically) .  Tell  me  ? 
SIR  HARRY.  Do  you  know  what  you  were 

brought  here  to  do  ? 
KATE.    I    have    just    been    learning.    You 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     57 

have   been   made   a  knight,   and   I   was 
summoned    to    answer    the    messages    of 
congratulation. 
SIR  HARRY.  That 's  it,  that 's  it.    You  come 

on  this  day  as  my  servant ! 
KATE.  I,  who  might  have  been  Lady  Sims. 
SIR  HARRY.  And  you  are  her  typist  instead. 
And  she  has  four  men-servants.     Oh,  I 
am  glad  you  saw  her  in  her  presentation 
gown. 

KATE.  I  wonder  if  she  would  let  me  do  her 
washing,  Sir  Harry  ? 

(Her  want  of  taste  disgusts  him.) 
SIR    HARRY    (with    dignity).    You    can    go. 
The  mere  thought  that  only  a  few  flights 
of  stairs  separates  such  as  you  from  my 

innocent  children 

(He  will  never  know  why  a  new  light 

has  come  into  her  face.) 
KATE  (slowly).  You  have  children? 
SIR  HARRY  (inflated).  Two. 

(He   wonders   why   she  is   so   long  in 
answering.) 


58     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

KATE  (resorting  to  impertinence).  Such  a  nice 

number. 
SIR  HARRY  (with  an  extra  turn  of  the  screw). 

Both  boys. 
KATE.   Successful   in   everything.    Are   they 

like  you,  Sir  Harry  ? 
SIR  HARRY  (expanding).  They  are  very  like 

me. 
KATE.  That 's  nice. 

(Even  on  such  a  subject  as  this  she  can 

be  ribald.) 

SIR  HARRY.  Will  you  please  to  go. 
KATE.    Heigho !    What   shall   I   say   to   my 

employer  ? 

SIR  HARRY.  That  is  no  affair  of  mine. 
KATE.  What  will  you  say  to  Lady  Sims  ? 
SIR  HARRY.  I  flatter  myself  that  whatever 

I   say,   Lady   Sims   will   accept   without 

comment. 

(She  smiles,  heaven  knows  why,  unless 

her  next  remark  explains  it.) 
KATE.  Still  the  same  Harry. 
SIR  HARRY.  What  do  you  mean  ? 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     59 

KATE.  Only  that  you  have  the  old  confidence 
in  your  profound  knowledge  of  the  sex. 

SIR  HARRY  (beginning  to  think  as  little  of  her 
intellect  as  of  her  morals).  I  suppose  I 
know  my  wife. 

KATE  (hopelessly  dense).  I  suppose  so.  I 
was  only  remembering  that  you  used  to 
think  you  knew  her  in  the  days  when  I 
was  the  lady.  (He  is  merely  wasting  his 
time  on  her,  and  he  indicates  the  door. 
She  is  not  sufficiently  the  lady  to  retire 
worsted.)  Well,  good  -  bye,  Sir  Harry. 
Won't  you  ring,  and  the  four  men-servants 
will  show  me  out  ? 
(But  he  hesitates.) 

SIR  HARRY  (in  spite  of  himself).  As  you 
are  here,  there  is  something  I  want  to 
get  out  of  you.  (Wishing  he  could  ask 
it  less  eagerly.)  Tell  me,  who  was  the 
man? 

(The  strange  woman — it  is  evident  now 
that  she  has  always  been  strange  to 
him — smiles  tolerantly.) 


60     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

KATE.  You  never  found  out  ? 

SIR  HARRY.  I  could  never  be  sure. 

KATE  (reflectively).  I  thought  that  would 
worry  you. 

SIR  HARRY  (sneering).  It  's  plain  that  he 
soon  left  you. 

KATE.  Very  soon. 

SIR  HARRY.  As  I  could  have  told  you. 
(But  still  she  surveys  him  with  the  smile 
of  Monna  Lisa.  The  badgered  man 
has  to  entreat.)  Who  was  he?  It  was 
fourteen  years  ago,  and  cannot  matter 
to  any  of  us  now.  Kate,  tell  me  who 
he  was  ? 

(It  is  his  first  youthful  moment,  and 
perhaps  because  of  that  she  does  not 
wish  to  hurt  him.) 

KATE  (shaking  a  motherly  head).  Better  not 
ask. 

SIR  HARRY.  I  do  ask.    Tell  me. 

KATE.  It  is  kinder  not  to  tell  you. 

SIR  HARRY  (violently).  Then,  by  James,  it 
was  one  of  my  own  pals.  Was  it  Ber- 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     61 

nard  Roche?  (She  shakes  her  head.)  It 
may  have  been  some  one  who  comes  to 
my  house  still. 

KATE.  I  think  not.  (Reflecting)  Fourteen 
years !  You  found  my  letter  that  night 
when  you  went  home  ? 

SIR  HARRY  (impatient).  Yes. 

KATE.  I  propped  it  against  the  decanters. 
I  thought  you  would  be  sure  to  see  it 
there.  It  was  a  room  not  unlike  this, 
and  the  furniture  was  arranged  in  the 
same  attractive  way.  How  it  all  comes 
back  to  me.  Don't  you  see  me,  Harry, 
in  hat  and  cloak,  putting  the  letter  there, 
taking  a  last  look  round,  and  then  steal- 
ing out  into  the  night  to  meet 

SIR  HARRY.  Whom  ? 

KATE.  Him.  Hours  pass,  no  sound  in  the 
room  but  the  tick-tack  of  the  clock,  and 
then  about  midnight  you  return  alone. 
You  take 

SIR  HENRY  (gruffly).  I  wasn't  alone. 

KATE  (the  picture  spoilt).  No?  oh.     (Plain- 


62     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

lively)  Here  have  I  all  these  years  been 
conceiving  it  wrongly.  (She  studies  his 
face.)  I  believe  something  interesting 
happened  ? 

SIR  HARRY  (growling).  Something  con- 
foundedly annoying. 

KATE  (coaxing).  Do  tell  me. 

SIR  HARRY.  We  won't  go  into  that.  Who 
was  the  man?  Surely  a  husband  has  a 
right  to  know  with  whom  his  wife  bolted. 

KATE  (who  is  detestably  ready  with  her  tongue) . 
Surely  the  wife  has  a  right  to  know  how 
he  took  it.  (The  woman's  love  of  bargain- 
ing comes  to  her  aid.)  A  fair  exchange. 
You  tell  me  what  happened,  and  I  will 
tell  you  who  he  was. 

SIR  HARRY.  You  will?  Very  well.  (It  is 
the  first  point  on  which  they  have  agreed, 
and,  forgetting  himself,  he  takes  a  place 
beside  her  on  the  fire-seat.  He  is  thinking 
only  of  what  he  is  to  tell  her,  but  she,  woman- 
like, is  conscious  of  their  proximity.) 

KATE  (tastelessly).  Quite  like  old  times.     (He 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     63 

moves    away  from   her   indignantly.)     Go 

on,  Harry. 
SIR  HARRY  (who  has  a  manful  shrinking  from 

saying  anything  that  is  to  his  disadvantage). 

Well,  as  you  know,  I  was  dining  at  the 

club  that  night. 
KATE.  Yes. 
SIR    HARRY.  Jack   Lamb    drove  me  home. 

Mabbett  Green  was  with  us,  and  I  asked 

them  to  come  in  for  a  few  minutes. 
KATE.    Jack    Lamb,     Mabbett    Green?    I 

think   I   remember   them.     Jack   was   in 

Parliament. 
SIR  HARRY.  No,  that  was  Mabbett.    They 

came  into  the  house  with  me  and — (with 

sudden  horror) — was  it  him  ? 
KATE  (bewildered).  Who? 
SIR  HARRY.  Mabbett  ? 
KATE.  What? 
SIR  HARRY.  The  man  ? 
KATE.  What  man?  (understanding)    Oh   no. 

I  thought  you  said  he  came  into  the  house 

with  you. 


64     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

SIR  HARRY.  It  might  have  been  a  blind. 

KATE.  Well,  it  wasn't.     Go  on. 

SIR  HARRY.  They  came  in  to  finish  a  talk 
we  had  been  having  at  the  club. 

KATE.  An  interesting  talk,  evidently. 

SIR  HARRY.  The  papers  had  been  full  that 
evening  of  the  elopement  of  some  countess 
woman  with  a  fiddler.  What  was  her 
name? 

KATE.  Does  it  matter  ? 

SIR  HARRY.  No.  (Thus  ends  the  countess.) 
We  had  been  discussing  the  thing  and — 
(he  'pulls  a  wry  face) — and  I  had  been 
rather  warm 

KATE  (with  horrid  relish).  I  begin  to  see. 
You  had  been  saying  it  served  the  hus- 
band right,  that  the  man  who  could  not 
look  after  his  wife  deserved  to  lose  her. 
It  was  one  of  your  favourite  subjects. 
Oh,  Harry,  say  it  was  that ! 

SIR  HARRY  (sourly).  It  may  have  been 
something  like  that. 

KATE.  And  all  the  time  the  letter  was  there, 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     65 

waiting;  and  none  of  you  knew  except 
the  clock.  Harry,  it  is  sweet  of  you  to 
tell  me.  (His  face  is  not  sweet.  The 
illiterate  woman  has  used  the  wrong  ad- 
jective.) I  forget  what  I  said  precisely 
in  the  letter. 

SIB  HARRY  (pulverising  her).  So  do  I.  But 
I  have  it  still. 

KATE  (not  pulverised).  Do  let  me  see  it 
again.  (She  has  observed  his  eye  wander- 
ing to  the  desk.) 

SIR  HARRY.  You  are  welcome  to  it  as  a 
gift.  (The  fateful  letter,  a  poor  little  dead 
thing,  is  brought  to  light  from  a  locked 
drawer.) 

KATE  (talcing  it).  Yes,  this  is  it.  Harry,  how 
you  did  crumple  it !  (She  reads,  not  with- 
out curiosity.)  'Dear  husband — I  call 
you  that  for  the  last  time — I  am  off.  I 
am  what  you  call  making  a  bolt  of  it. 
I  won't  try  to  excuse  myself  nor  to  ex- 
plain, for  you  would  not  accept  the  ex- 
cuses nor  understand  the  explanation. 


66     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

It  will  be  a  little  shock  to  you,  but  only 
to  your  pride;  what  will  astound  you 
is  that  any  woman  could  be  such  a  fool 
as  to  leave  such  a  man  as  you.  I  am 
taking  nothing  with  me  that  belongs  to 
you.  May  you  be  very  happy. — Your  un- 
grateful KATE.  P.S. — You  need  not  try 
to  find  out  who  he  is.  You  will  try,  but 
you  won't  succeed.'  (She  folds  the  nasty 
little  thing  up.)  I  may  really  have  it  for 
my  very  own  ? 

SIR  HARRY.  You  really  may. 

KATE  (impudently).  If  you  would  care  for 
a  typed  copy ? 

SIR  HARRY  (in  a  voice  with  which  he  used  to 
frighten  his  grandmother).  None  of  your 
sauce !  (Wincing)  I  had  to  let  them 
see  it  in  the  end. 

KATE.  I  can  picture  Jack  Lamb  eating  it.  \, 

SIR  HARRY.  A  penniless  parson's  daughter. 

KATE.  That  is  all  I  was. 

SIR  HARRY.  We  searched  for  the  two  of 
you  high  and  low. 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     67 

KATE.  Private  detectives  ? 

SIB  HARRY.  They  couldn't  get  on  the  track 
of  you. 

KATE  (smiling).  No? 

SIR  HARRY.  But  at  last  the  courts  let  me 
serve  the  papers  by  advertisement  on  a 
man  unknown,  and  I  got  my  freedom. 

KATE.  So  I  saw.  It  was  the  last  I  heard  of 
you. 

SIR  HARRY  (each  word  a  blow  for  her).  And  I 
married  again  just  as  soon  as  ever  I  could. 

KATE.  They  say  that  is  always  a  compli- 
ment to  the  first  wife. 

SIR  HARRY  (violently).  I  showed  them. 

KATE.  You  soon  let  them  see  that  if  one 
woman  was  a  fool,  you  still  had  the 
pick  of  the  basket  to  choose  from. 

SIR  HARRY.  By  James,  I  did. 

KATE  (bringing  him  to  earth  again).  But  still, 
you  wondered  who  he  was. 

SIR  HARRY.  I  suspected  everybody — even 
my  pals.  I  felt  like  jumping  at  their 
throats  and  crying,  'It  's  you !' 


68     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

KATE.  You  had  been  so  admirable  to  me, 

an  instinct  told  you  that  I  was  sure  to 

choose  another  of  the  same. 
SIR  HARRY.  I  thought,  it  can't  be  money, 

so  it  must  be  looks.     Some  dolly  face. 

(He  stares  at  her  in  perplexity.)     He  must 

have    had    something    wonderful    about 

him  to  make  you  willing  to  give  up  all 

that  you  had  with  me. 
KATE    (as  if  he  was  the  stupid  one).   Poor 

Harry. 
SIR    HARRY.    And    it    couldn't    have    been 

going    on    for    long,    for    I    would    have 

noticed  the  change  in  you. 
KATE.  Would  you  ? 
SIR  HARRY.  I  knew  you  so  well. 
KATE.  You  amazing  man. 
SIR  HARRY.  So  who  was  he  ?    Out  with  it. 
KATE.  You  are  determined  to  know  ? 
SIR  HARRY.  Your  promise.    You  gave  your 

word. 
KATE.  If  I  must (She  is  the  villain  of  the 

piece,  but  it  must  be  conceded  that  in  this 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     69 

matter  she  is  reluctant  to  pain  him.)  I 
am  sorry  I  promised.  (Looking  at  him 
steadily.)  There  was  no  one,  Harry;  no 
one  at  all. 

SIR  HARRY  (rising).  If  you  think  you  can 
play  with  me 

KATE.  I  told  you  that  you  wouldn't  like  it. 

SIR  HARRY  (rasping).  It  is  unbelievable. 

KATE.  I  suppose  it  is;  but  it  is  true. 

SIR  HARRY.  Your  letter  itself  gives  you  the  lie. 

KATE.  That  was  intentional.  I  saw  that 
if  the  truth  were  known  you  might  have 
a  difficulty  in  getting  your  freedom;  and 
as  I  was  getting  mine  it  seemed  fair  that 
you  should  have  yours  also.  So  I  wrote 
my  good-bye  in  words  that  would  be 
taken  to  mean  what  you  thought  they 
meant,  and  I  knew  the  law  would  back 
you  in  your  opinion.  For  the  law,  like 
you,  Harry,  has  a  profound  understand- 
ing of  women. 

SIR  HARRY  (trying  to  straighten  himself).  I 
don't  believe  you  yet. 


70     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

KATE  (looking  not  unkindly  into  the  soul  of 

this  man).  Perhaps  that  is  the  best  way 

to  take  it.     It  is  less  unflattering  than 

the  truth.     But  you  were  the  only  one. 

(Summing  up  her  life.)     You  sufficed. 

SIR  HARRY.  Then  what  mad  impulse 

KATE.   It   was  no  impulse,   Harry.    I   had 

thought  it  out  for  a  year. 
SIR  HARRY.  A  year?     (dazed).    One  would 

think  to  hear  you  that  I  hadn't  been  a 

good  husband  to  you. 
KATE  (with  a  sad  smile).  You  were  a  good 

husband  according  to  your  lights. 
SIR  HARRY  (stoutly).  I  think  so. 
KATE.  And  a  moral  man,  and  chatty,  and 

quite  the  philanthropist. 
SIR   HARRY    (on   sure   ground).   All    women 

envied  you. 

KATE.  How  you  loved  me  to  be  envied. 
SIR  HARRY.  I  swaddled  you  in  luxury. 
KATE  (making    her    great    revelation).    That 

was  it. 
SIR  HARRY  (blankly).  What? 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     71 

KATE  (who  can  be  serene  because  it  is  all  over). 
How  you  beamed  at  me  when  I  sat  at  the 
head  of  your  fat  dinners  in  my  fat  jewellery, 
surrounded  by  our  fat  friends. 

SIR  HARRY  (aggrieved).  They  weren't  so  fat. 

KATE  (a  side  issue).  All  except  those  who 
were  so  thin.  Have  you  ever  noticed, 
Harry,  that  many  jewels  make  women 
either  incredibly  fat  or  incredibly  thin  ? 

SIR  HARRY  (shouting).  I  have  not.  (Is  it 
worth  while  to  argue  with  her  any  longer  ?) 
We  had  all  the  most  interesting  society 
of  the  day.  It  wasn't  only  business 
men.  There  were  politicians,  painters, 
writers 

KATE.  Only  the  glorious,  dazzling  successes. 
Oh,  the  fat  talk  while  we  ate  too  much 
— about  who  had  made  a  hit  and  who  was 
slipping  back,  and  what  the  noo  house 
cost  and  the  noo  motor  and  the  gold  soup- 
plates,  and  who  was  to  be  the  noo  knight. 

SIR  HARRY  (who  it  will  be  observed  is  un- 
answerable from  first  to  last).  Was  any- 


72     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

body  getting  on  better  than  me,  and 
consequently  you  ? 

KATE.  Consequently  me!  Oh,  Harry,  you 
and  your  sublime  religion. 

SIR  HARRY  (honest  heart).  My  religion?  I 
never  was  one  to  talk  about  religion, 
but 

KATE.  Pooh,  Harry,  you  don't  even  know 
what  your  religion  was  and  is  and  will  be 
till  the  day  of  your  expensive  funeral. 
(And  here  is  the  lesson  that  life  has  taught 
her.)  One's  religion  is  whatever  he  is 
most  interested  in,  and  yours  is  Success. 

SIR  HARRY  (quoting  from  his  morning  paper) . 
Ambition — it  is  the  last  infirmity  of  noble 
minds. 

KATE.  Noble  minds ! 

SIR  HARRY  (at  last  grasping  what  she  is  talk- 
ing about).  You  are  not  saying  that  you 
left  me  because  of  my  success  ? 

KATE.  Yes,  that  was  it.  (And  now  she 
stands  revealed  to  him.)  I  couldn't  en- 
dure it.  If  a  failure  had  come  now  and 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     73 

then — but  your  success  was  suffocating 
me.  (She  is  rigid  with  emotion.)  The 
passionate  craving  I  had  to  be  done  with 
it,  to  find  myself  among  people  who  had 
not  got  on. 

SIR  HARRY  (with  proper  spirit).  There  are 
plenty  of  them. 

KATE.  There  were  none  in  our  set.  When 
they  began  to  go  down-hill  they  rolled 
out  of  our  sight. 

SIR  HARRY  (clenching  it).  I  tell  you  I  am 
worth  a  quarter  of  a  million. 

KATE  (unabashed).  That  is  what  you  are 
worth  to  yourself.  I  '11  tell  you  what 
you  are  worth  to  me:  exactly  twelve 
pounds.  For  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  could  launch  myself  on  the  world  alone 
if  I  first  proved  my  mettle  by  earning 
twelve  pounds;  and  as  soon  as  I  had 
earned  it  I  left  you. 

SIR  HARRY  (in  the  scales).  Twelve  pounds  ! 

KATE.  That  is  your  value  to  a  woman.  If 
she  can't  make  it  she  has  to  stick  to  you. 


74     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

SIR  HARRY  (remembering  perhaps  a  rectory 
garden).  You  valued  me  at  more  than 
that  when  you  married  me. 

KATE  (seeing  it  also).  Ah,  I  didn't  know  you 
then.  If  only  you  had  been  a  man, 
Harry. 

SIR  HARRY.  A  man?  What  do  you  mean 
by  a  man  ? 

KATE  (leaving  the  garden).  Haven't  you 
heard  of  them?  They  are  something 
fine;  and  every  woman  is  loathe  to  ad- 
mit to  herself  that  her  husband  is  not 
one.  When  she  marries,  even  though  she 
has  been  a  very  trivial  person,  there  is 
in  her  some  vague  stirring  toward  a 
worthy  life,  as  well  as  a  fear  of  her 
capacity  for  evil.  She  knows  her  chance 
lies  in  him.  If  there  is  something  good 
in  him,  what  is  good  in  her  finds  it,  and 
they  join  forces  against  the  baser  parts. 
So  I  didn't  give  you  up  willingly,  Harry. 
I  invented  all  sorts  of  theories  to  explain 
you.  Your  hardness — I  said  it  was  a 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     75 

fine  want  of  maukishness.  Your  coarse- 
ness— I  said  it  goes  with  strength.  Your 
contempt  for  the  weak — I  called  it  virility. 
Your  want  of  ideals  was  clear-sightedness. 
Your  ignoble  views  of  women — I  tried  to 
think  them  funny.  Oh,  I  clung  to  you 
to  save  myself.  But  I  had  to  let  go; 
you  had  only  the  one  quality,  Harry, 
success;  you  had  it  so  strong  that  it 
swallowed  all  the  others. 

SIR  HARRY  (not  to  be  diverted  from  the  main 
issue).  How  did  you  earn  that  twelve 
pounds  ? 

KATE.  It  took  me  nearly  six  months;  but 
I  earned  it  fairly.  (She  presses  her  hand 
on  the  typewriter  as  lovingly  as  many  a 
woman  has  pressed  a  rose.)  I  learned  this. 
I  hired  it  and  taught  myself.  I  got  some 
work  through  a  friend,  and  with  my  first 
twelve  pounds  I  paid  for  my  machine. 
Then  I  considered  that  I  was  free  to  go, 
and  I  went. 

SIR  HARRY.  All  this  going  on  in  my  house 


76     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

while  you  were  living  in  the  lap  of  luxury ! 
(She  nods.)  By  God,  you  were  deter- 
mined. 

KATE  (briefly) .  By  God,  I  was. 

SIR  HARRY  (staring).  How  you  must  have 
hated  me. 

KATE  (smiling  at  the  childish  word).  Not  a 
bit — after  I  saw  that  there  was  a  way 
out.  From  that  hour  you  amused  me, 
Harry;  I  was  even  sorry  for  you,  for 
I  saw  that  you  couldn't  help  yourself. 
Success  is  just  a  fatal  gift. 

SIR  HARRY.  Oh,  thank  you. 

KATE  (thinking,  dear  friends  in  front,  of  you 
and  me  perhaps).  Yes,  and  some  of  your 
most  successful  friends  knew  it.  One  or 
two  of  them  used  to  look  very  sad  at 
times,  as  if  they  thought  they  might  have 
come  to  something  if  they  hadn't  got  on. 

SIR  HARRY  (who  has  a  horror  of  sacrilege). 
The  battered  crew  you  live  among  now — 
what  are  they  but  folk  who  have  tried 
to  succeed  and  failed  ? 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     77 

KATE.  That 's  it;  they  try,  but  they  fail. 

SIR  HARRY.  And  always  will  fail. 

KATE.  Always.  Poor  souls — I  say  of  them. 
Poor  soul — they  say  of  me.  It  keeps  us 
human.  That  is  why  I  never  tire  of 
them. 

SIR  HARRY  (comprehensively).  Bah!  Kate, 
I  tell  you  I  '11  be  worth  half  a  million  yet. 

KATE.  I  sm  sure  you  will.  You  're  getting 
stout,  Harry. 

SIR  HARRY.  No,  I  'm  not. 

KATE.  What  was  the  name  of  that  fat  old 
fellow  who  used  to  fall  asleep  at  our 
dinner-parties  ? 

SIR  HARRY.  If  you  mean  Sir  William  Crack- 
ley 

KATE.  That  was  the  man.  Sir  William  was 
to  me  a  perfect  picture  of  the  grand 
success.  He  had  got  on  so  well  that  he 
was  very,  very  stout,  and  when  he  sat 
on  a  chair  it  was  thus  (her  hands  meeting 
in  front  of  her) — as  if  he  were  holding 
his  success  together.  That  is  what  you 


78     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

are  working  for,  Harry.  You  will  have 
that  and  the  hah5  million  about  the  same 
time. 

SIR  HARRY  (who  has  surely  been  very  patient). 
Will  you  please  to  leave  my  house. 

KATE  (putting  on  her  gloves,  soiled  things). 
But  don't  let  us  part  in  anger.  How  do 
you  think  I  am  looking,  Harry,  compared 
to  the  dull,  inert  thing  that  used  to  roll 
round  in  your  padded  carriages  ? 

SIR  HARRY  (in  masterly  fashion).  I  forget 
what  you  were  like.  I  'm  very  sure  you 
never  could  have  held  a  candle  to  the 
present  Lady  Sims. 

KATE.  That  is  a  picture  of  her,  is  it 
not? 

SIR  HARRY  (seizing  his  chance  again).  In 
her  wedding-gown.  Painted  by  an  R.A. 

KATE  (wickedly).  A  knight? 

SIR  HARRY  (deceived).  Yes. 

KATE  (who  likes  LADY  SIMS:  a  piece  of  pre- 
sumption on  her  part).  It  is  a  very  pretty 
face. 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     79 

SIR  HARRY  (with  the  pride  of  possession). 
Acknowledged  to  be  a  beauty  everywhere. 

KATE.  There  is  a  merry  look  in  the  eyes,  and 
character  in  the  chin. 

SIR  HARRY  (like  an  auctioneer).  Noted  for 
her  wit. 

KATE.  All  her  life  before  her  when  that  was 
painted.  It  is  a  spirituelle  face  too. 
(Suddenly  she  turns  on  him  with  anger, 
for  the  first  and  only  time  in  the  play.) 
Oh,  Harry,  you  brute ! 

SIR  HARRY  (staggered).  Eh?    What? 

KATE.  That  dear  creature  capable  of  be- 
coming a  noble  wife  and  mother — she  is 
the  spiritless  woman  of  no  account  that 
I  saw  here  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  forgive 
you  for  myself,  for  I  escaped,  but  that 
poor  lost  soul,  oh,  Harry,  Harry. 

SIR  HARRY  (waving  her  to  the  door).  I  '11 
thank  you —  If  ever  there  was  a  woman 
proud  of  her  husband  and  happy  in  her 
married  life,  that  woman  is  Lady  Sims. 

KATE.  I  wonder. 


80     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

SIR  HARRY.  Then  you  needn't  wonder. 

KATE  (slowly).  If  I  was  a  husband — it  is  my 
advice  to  all  of  them — I  would  often 
watch  my  wife  quietly  to  see  whether 
the  twelve-pound  look  was  not  coming 
into  her  eyes.  Two  boys,  did  you  say, 
and  both  like  you  ? 

SIR  HARRY.  What  is  that  to  you  ? 

KATE  (with  glistening  eyes).  I  was  only 
thinking  that  somewhere  there  are  two 
little  girls  who,  when  they  grow  up — the 
dear,  pretty  girls  who  are  all  meant  for 
the  men  that  don't  get  on !  Well,  good- 
bye, Sir  Harry. 

SIR  HARRY  (showing  a  little  human  weakness,  it 
is  to  be  feared).  Say  first  that  you  're  sorry. 

KATE.  For  what  ? 

SIR  HARRY.  That  you  left  me.  Say  you 
regret  it  bitterly.  You  know  you  do. 
(She  smiles  and  shakes  her  head.  He  is 
pettish.  He  makes  a  terrible  announce- 
ment.) You  have  spoilt  the  day  for  me. 

KATE  (to  hearten  him).  I  am  sorry  for  that; 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     81 

but  it  is  only  a  pin-prick,  Harry.  I 
suppose  it  is  a  little  jarring  in  the  moment 
of  your  triumph  to  find  that  there  is — 
one  old  friend — who  does  not  think  you 
a  success;  but  you  will  soon  forget  it. 
Who  cares  what  a  typist  thinks  ? 

SIR  HARRY  (heartened).  Nobody.  A  typist 
at  eighteen  shillings  a  week ! 

KATE  (proudly).  Not  a  bit  of  it,  Harry.  I 
double  that. 

SIR  HARRY  (neatly).  Magnificent! 

(There  is  a  timid  knock  at  the  door.) 

LADY  SIMS.  May  I  come  in  ? 

SIR  HARRY  (rather  appealingly) .  It  is  Lady 
Sims. 

KATE.  I  won't  tell.  She  is  afraid  to  come  into 
her  husband's  room  without  knocking ! 

SIR  HARRY.  She  is  not.  (Uxoriously)  Come 
in,  dearest.  (Dearest  enters  carrying  the 
sword.  She  might  have  had  the  sense  not  to 
bring  it  in  while  this  annoying  person  is 
here.) 

LADY  SIMS  (thinking  she  has  brouglii  her  wel- 


82     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

come  with  her).     Harry,   the   sword   has 
come. 
SIR  HARRY  (who  will  dote  on  it  presently). 

Oh,  all  right. 

LADY  SIMS.  But  I  thought  you  were  so  eager 
to  practise  with  it. 

(The  person  .smiles  at  this.    He  wishes 
he  had  not  looked  to  see  if  she  was 
smiling.) 
SIR  HARRY  (sharply).  Put  it  down. 

(LADY  SIMS  flushes  a  little  as  she  lays 

the  sword  aside.) 
KATE  (with  her  confounded  courtesy).    It  is  a 

beautiful  sword,  if  I  may  say  so. 
LADY  SIMS  (helped).  Yes. 

(The  person  thinks  she  can  put  him  in 
the  wrong,  does  she?  He  'II  show 
her.) 

SIR  HARRY  (with  one  eye  on  KATE).  Emmy, 
the  one  thing  your  neck  needs  is  more 
jewels. 

LADY  SIMS  (faltering) .  More ! 
SIR  HARRY.  Some  ropes  of  pearls.     I  '11  see 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     83 

to  it.  It 's  a  bagatelle  to  me.  (KATE 
conceals  her  chagrin,  so  she  had  better  be 
shown  the  door.  He  rings.)  I  won't 
detain  you  any  longer,  miss. 

KATE.  Thank  you. 

LADY  SIMS.  Going  already?  You  have 
been  very  quick. 

SIR  HARRY.  The  person  doesn't  suit,  Emmy. 

LADY  SIMS.  I  'm  sorry. 

KATE.  So  am  I,  madam,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  Good-bye,  your  ladyship — good- 
bye, Sir  Harry.  (There  is  a  suspicion  of 
an  impertinent  curtsey,  and  she  is  escorted 
off  the  premises  by  TOMBES.  The  air  of  the 
room  is  purified  by  her  going.  SIR  HARRY 
notices  it  at  once.) 

LADY  SIMS  (whose  tendency  is  to  say  the 
wrong  thing).  She  seemed  such  a  capable 
woman. 

SIR  HARRY  (on  his  hearth).  I  don't  like  her 
style  at  all. 

LADY  SIMS  (meekly).  Of  course  you  know  best. 
(This  is  the  right  kind  of  woman.) 


84     THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK 

SIR  HARRY  (rather  anxious  for  corroboratiori) . 
Lord,  how  she  winced  when  I  said  I  was 
to  give  you  those  ropes  of  pearls. 

LADY  SIMS.  Did  she?  I  didn't  notice.  I 
suppose  so. 

SIR  HARRY  (frowning).  Suppose?  Surely 
I  know  enough  about  women  to  know 
that. 

LADY  SIMS.  Yes,  oh  yes. 

SIR  HARRY.  (Odd  that  so  confident  a  man  should 
ask  this.)  Emmy,  I  know  you  well,  don't 
I  ?  I  can  read  you  like  a  book,  eh  ? 

LADY  SIMS  (nervously).  Yes,  Harry. 

SIR  HARRY  (jovially,  but  with  an  inquiring 
eye).  What  a  different  existence  yours  is 
from  that  poor  lonely  wretch's. 

LADY  SIMS.  Yes,  but  she  has  a  very  con- 
tented face. 

SIR  HARRY  (with  a  stamp  of  his  foot).  All  put 
on.  What? 

LADY  SIMS  (timidly).  I  didn't  say  anything. 

SIR  HARRY  (snapping).  One  would  think  you 
envied  her. 


THE  TWELVE-POUND  LOOK     85 

LADY  SIMS.  Envied?  Oh  no — but  I  thought 
she  looked   so  alive.     It  was  while  she 
was  working  the  machine. 
SIR  HARRY.  Alive !    That  's   no  life.     It  is 
you  that  are  alive.     (Curtly)  I  'm  busy, 
Emmy.     (He  sits  at  his  writing-table.) 
LADY  SIMS  (dutifully).  I  'm  sorry;  I  '11  go, 
Harry  (inconsequentially).  Are  they  very 
expensive  ? 
SIR  HARRY.  What? 
LADY  SIMS.  Those  machines  ? 

(When  she  has  gone  the  possible 
meaning  of  her  question  startles  him. 
The  curtain  hides  him  from  us,  but 
we  may  be  sure  that  he  will  soon  be 
bland  again.  We  have  a  comfort- 
able feeling,  you  and  /,  that  there 
is  nothing  of  HARRY  SIMS  in  us.) 


ROSALIND 


ROSALIND 

Two  middle-aged  ladies  are  drinking  tea  in 
the  parlour  of  a  cottage  by  the  sea.  It  is 
far  from  London,  and  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  cry  of  children,  of  whom  middle-aged  ladies 
have  often  had  enough.  Were  the  room  MRS. 
PAGE'S  we  should  make  a  journey  through  it 
in  search  of  character.,  but  she  is  only  a  bird 
of  passage;  nothing  of  herself  here  that  has 
not  strayed  from  her  bedroom  except  some 
cushions  and  rugs:  touches  of  character  after 
all  maybe,  for  they  suggest  that  MRS.  PAGE 
likes  to  sit  soft. 

The  exterior  of  the  cottage  is  probably 
picturesque,  with  a  thatched  roof,  but  we  shall 
never  know  for  certain,  it  being  against  the 
rules  of  the  game  to  step  outside  and  look.  The 
old  bowed  window  of  the  parlour  is  of  the  en- 
gaging kind  that  still  brings  some  carriage  folk 

89 


90  ROSALIND 

to  a  sudden  stop  in  villages,  not  necessarily  to 
sample  the  sweets  of  yester-year  exposed  within 
in  bottles;  its  panes  are  leaded;  but  MRS. 
QUICKLY  will  put  something  more  modern  in 
their  place  if  ever  her  ship  comes  home.  They 
will  then  be  used  as  the  roof  of  the  hen-coop,  and 
ultimately  some  lovely  lady,  given,  like  the 
chickens,  to  'picking  up  things,9  may  survey 
the  world  through  them  from  a  window  in 
Mayfair.  The  parlour  is,  by  accident,  like  some 
woman9 s  face  that  scores  by  being  out  of  draw- 
ing. At  present  the  window  is  her  smile,  but 
one  cannot  fix  features  to  the  haphazard  floor, 
nor  to  the  irregular  walls,  which  neverthe- 
less are  part  of  the  invitation  to  come  and  stay 
here.  There  are  two  absurd  steps  leading 
up  to  MRS.  PAGE'S  bedroom,  and  perhaps 
they  are  what  give  the  room  its  retroussee 
touch.  There  is  a  smell  of  sea-weed;  twice 
a  day  Neptune  comes  gallantly  to  the  window 
and  hands  MRS.  PAGE  the  smell  of  sea-weed. 
He  knows  probably  that  she  does  not  like  to 
have  to  go  far  for  her  sea-weed.  Perhaps  he 


ROSALIND  91 

also  suspects  her  to  be  something  of  a  spark, 
and  looks  forward  to  his  evening  visits,  of 
which  we  know  nothing. 

This  is  a  mere  suggestion  that  there  may 
be  more  in  MRS.  PAGE  (when  the  moon  is  up, 
say)  than  meets  the  eye,  but  we  see  at  present 
only  what  does  meet  the  eye  as  she  gossips 
with  her  landlady  at  the  tea-table.  Is  she 
good-looking?  is  the  universal  shriek;  the 
one  question  on  the  one  subject  that  really 
thrills  humanity.  But  the  question  seems 
beside  the  point  about  this  particular  lady,  who 
has  so  obviously  ceased  to  have  any  interest 
in  the  answer.  To  us  who  have  a  few  moments 
to  sum  her  up  while  she  is  still  at  the  tea-table 
(just  time  enough  for  sharp  ones  to  form  a 
wrong  impression),  she  is  an  indolent,  sloppy 
thing,  this  MRS.  PAGE  of  London,  decidedly  too 
plump,  and  averse  to  pulling  the  strings  that 
might  contract  her;  as  MRS.  QUICKLY  may 
have  said,  she  has  let  her  figure  go  and  snapped 
her  fingers  at  it  as  it  went.  Her  hair  is  braided 
back  at  a  minimum  of  labour  (and  the  brush 


92  ROSALIND 

has  been  left  on  the  parlour  mantelpiece).  She 
wears  at  tea-time  a  loose  and  dowdy  dressing- 
gown  and  large  flat  slippers.  Such  a  lazy 
woman  (shall  we  venture?)  that  if  she  were  a 
beggar  and  you  offered  her  alms,  she  would  ask 
you  to  put  them  in  her  pocket  for  her. 

Yet  we  notice,  as  contrary  to  her  type,  that 
she  is  not  only  dowdy  but  self-consciously 
enamoured  of  her  dowdiness,  has  a  kiss  for 
it  so  to  speak.  This  is  odd,  and  perhaps  we 
had  better  have  another  look  at  her.  The 
thing  waggling  gaily  beneath  the  table  is  one 
of  her  feet,  from  which  the  sprawling  slipper 
has  dropped,  to  remain  where  it  fell.  It  is 
an  uncommonly  pretty  foot,  and  one  instantly 
wonders  what  might  not  the  rest  of  her  be  like 
if  it  also  escaped  from  its  moorings. 

The  foot  returns  into  custody,  without  its 
owner  having  to  stoop,  and  MRS.  PAGE  crosses 
with  cheerful  languor  to  a  chair  by  the  fire. 
She  has  a  drawling  walk  that  fits  her  gown. 
There  is  no  footstool  within  reach,  and  she 
pulls  another  chair  to  her  with  her  feet  and 


ROSALIND  93 

rests   them    on   it    contentedly.     The    slippers 
almost  hide  her  from  our  view. 

DAME  QUICKLY.  You  Mrs.  Cosy  Comfort. 

MRS.  PAGE  (whose  voice  is  as  lazy  as  her 
walk}.  That's  what  I  am.  Perhaps 
a  still  better  name  for  me  would  be 
Mrs.  Treacly  Contentment.  Dame,  you 
like  me,  don't  you?  Come  here,  and 
tell  me  why. 

DAME.  What  do  I  like  you  for,  Mrs.  Page? 
Well,  for  one  thing,  it's  very  kind  of 
you  to  let  me  sit  here  drinking  tea  and 
gossiping  with  you,  for  all  the  world  as 
if  I  were  your  equal.  And  for  another, 
you  always  pay  your  book  the  day  I 
bring  it  to  you,  and  that  is  enough  to 
make  any  poor  woman  like  her  lodger. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Oh,  as  a  lodger  I  know  I  'm 
well  enough,  and  I  love  our  gossips  over 
the  tea-pot,  but  that  is  not  exactly  what 
I  meant.  Let  me  put  it  in  this  way: 
If  you  tell  me  what  you  most  envy  in 


94  ROSALIND 

me,  I  shall  tell  you  what  I  most  envy  in 
you. 

DAME  (with  no  need  to  reflect).  Well,  most 
of  all,  ma'am,  I  think  I  envy  you  your 
contentment  with  middle-age. 

MRS.  PAGE  (purring).  I  am  middle-aged,  so 
why  should  I  complain  of  it  ? 

DAME  (who  feels  that  only  yesterday  she  was 
driving  the  youths  to  desperation).  You 
even  say  it  as  if  it  were  a  pretty  word. 

MRS.  PAGE.  But  isn't  it  ? 

DAME.  Not  when  you  are  up  to  the  knees  in 
it,  as  I  am. 

MRS.  PAGE.  And  as  I  am.  But  I  dote  on  it. 
It  is  such  a  comfy,  sloppy,  pull-the-cur- 
tains,  carpet-slipper  sort  of  word.  When 
I  wake  in  the  morning,  Dame,  and  am 
about  to  leap  out  of  bed  like  the  girl  I 
once  was,  I  suddenly  remember,  and  I 
cry  'Hurrah,  I  'm  middle-aged.' 

DAME.  You  just  dumbfounder  me  when  you 
tell  me  things  like  that.  (Here  is  some- 
thing she  has  long  wanted  to  ask.)  You 


ROSALIND  95 

can't  be  more  than  forty,  if  I  may  make 

so  bold  ? 
MRS.  PAGE.  I  am  forty  and  a  bittock,  as  the 

Scotch   say.     That   means   forty,   and   a 

good  wee  bit  more. 
DAME.    There !    And  you  can  say  it  without 

blinking. 
MRS.   PAGE.    Why  not?    Do  you  think  I 

should    call    myself    a    30-to-45,    like    a 

motor-car?       Now     what     I     think     I 

envy  you  for  most  is  for  being  a  grand- 
mamma. 
DAME  (smiling  tolerantly  at  some  picture  the 

words  have  called  up).    That 's  a  cheap 

honour. 
MRS.  PAGE  (summing  up  probably  her  whole 

conception  of  the  duties  of  a  grandmother). 

I  should  love  to  be  a  grandmamma,  and 

toss  little  toddlekins  in  the  air. 
DAME  (who  knows  that  there  is  more  in  it  than 

that).  I  dare  say  you  will  be  some  day. 
(The  eyes  of  both  turn  to  a  photograph 
on    the    mantelpiece.      It    represents 


96  ROSALIND 

a  pretty  woman  in  the  dress  of  Rosa- 
lind.    The  DAME  fingers  it   for  the 
hundredth    time,    and    MRS.    PAGE 
regards  her  tranquilly.) 
DAME.  No  one  can  deny  but  your  daughter 

is  a  pretty  piece.     How  old  will  she  be 

now? 
MRS.    PAGE.      Dame,    I    don't    know    very 

much  about  the  stage,   but  I  do  know 

that    you    should    never,    never    ask   an 

actress's  age. 
DAME.    Surely  when  they  are  as  young  and 

famous  as  this  puss  is. 
MRS.   PAGE.  She   is  getting  on,  you  know. 

Shall  we  say  twenty-three  ? 
DAME.   Well,  well,  it 's  true  you  might  be 

a  grandmother  by   now.     I   wonder   she 

doesn't  marry.     Where  is  she  now  ? 
MRS.  PAGE.   At  Monte  Carlo,  the  papers  say. 

It  is  a  place  where  people  gamble. 
DAME  (shaking  her  head).     Gamble?     Dear, 

dear,  that 's  terrible.     (But  she  knows  of 

a  woman  who  once  won  a  dinner  service 


ROSALIND  97 

without  anything  untoward  happening  after- 
wards.) And  yet  I  would  like  just  once 
to  put  on  my  shilling  with  the  best  of 
them.  If  I  were  you  I  would  try  a 
month  at  that  place  with  her. 
MRS.  PAGE.  Not  I,  I  am  just  Mrs.  Cosy  Com- 
fort. At  Monte  Carlo  I  should  be  a  fish 
out  of  water,  Dame,  as  much  as  Beatrice 
would  be  if  she  were  to  try  a  month  down 
here  with  me. 

DAME  (less  in  disparagement  of  local  society 
than  of  that  sullen  bore  the  sea,  and  bliss- 
fully unaware  that  it  intrudes  even  at 
Monte  Carlo).  Yes,  I  'm  thinking  she 
would  find  this  a  dull  hole.  (In  the 
spirit  of  adventure  that  has  carried  the 
English  far)  And  yet,  play-actress 
though  she  be,  I  would  like  to  see  her, 
God  forgive  me. 

(She  is  trimming  the  lamp  when  there 
is  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  is 
pleasantly  flustered,  and  indicates 
with  a  gesture  that  something  is  con- 


98  ROSALIND 

stantly   happening  in   this   go-ahead 
village.) 
DAME.  It  has  a  visitor's  sound. 

(The  lodger  is  so  impressed  that  she 
takes  her  feet  off  the  chair.  Thus 
may  MRS.  QUICKLY'S  ancestors  have 
stared  at  each  other  in  this  very 
cottage  a  hundred  years  ago  when 
they  thought  they  heard  Napoleon 
tapping.) 

MRS.  PAGE  (keeping  her  head).  If  it  is  the 
doctor's  lady,  she  wants  to  arrange 
with  me  about  the  cutting  out  for  the 
mothers'  meeting. 

DAME  (who  has  long  ceased  to  benefit  from 
these  gatherings).  Drat  the  mothers' 
meetings. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Oh  no,  I  dote  on  them.  (She 
is  splendidly  active;  in  short,  the  spirited 
woman  has  got  up.)  Still,  I  want  my 
evening  snooze  now,  so  just  tell  her  I  am 
lying  down. 
DAME  (thankful  to  be  in  a  plot).  I  will. 


ROSALIND  99 

MRS.  PAGE.  Yes,  but  let  me  lie  down  first, 
so  that  it  won't  be  a  fib. 

DAME.  There,  there.    That 's  such  a  middle- 
aged  thing  to  say. 

(In  the  most  middle-aged  way  MRS. 
PAGE  spreads  herself  on  a  couch. 
They  have  been  speaking  in  a 
whisper,  and  as  the  DAME  goes  to  the 
door  we  have  just  time  to  take  note 
that  MRS.  QUICKLY  whispered  most 
beautifully:  a  softer  whisper  than 
the  DAME'S,  but  so  clear  that  it  might 
be  heard  across  a  field.  This  is  the 
most  tell-tale  thing  we  have  discovered 
about  her  as  yet. 

Before  MRS.  QUICKLY  has  reached  the 
door  it  opens  to  admit  an  impatient 
young  man  in  knickerbockers  and  a 
Norfolk  jacket,  all  aglow  with  rain- 
drops. Public  school  (and  the  par- 
ticular one)  is  written  on  his  forehead, 
and  almost  nothing  else;  he  has 
scarcely  yet  begun  to  surmise  that  any- 


100  ROSALIND 

thing  else  may  be  required.  He  is 
modest  and  clear-eyed,  and  would  ring 
for  his  tub  in  Paradise;  (reputably 
athletic  also),  with  an  instant  smile 
always  in  reserve  for  the  antagonist 
who  accidentally  shins  him.  Whatever 
you,  as  his  host,  ask  him  to  do,  he  says 
he  would  like  to  awfully  if  you  don't 
mind  his  being  a  priceless  duffer  at  it; 
his  vocabulary  is  scanty,  and  in  his 
engaging  mouth  'priceless'  sums  up 
all  that  is  to  be  known  of  good  or  ill 
in  our  varied  existence;  at  a  pinch  it 
would  suffice  him  for  most  of  his  simple 
wants,  just  as  one  may  traverse  the  con- 
tinent with  Combien?  His  brain  is 
quite  as  good  as  another's,  but  as  yet 
he  has  referred  scarcely  anything  to 
it.  He  respects  learning  in  the  aged, 
but  shrinks  uncomfortably  from  it  in 
contemporaries,  as  persons  who  have 
somehow  failed.  To  him  the  proper 
way  to  look  upon  ability  is  as  some- 


ROSALIND  101 

thing  we  must  all  come  to  in  the  end. 
He  has  a  nice  taste  in  the  arts  that 
has  come  to  him  by  the  way  of  socks, 
spats  and  slips,  and  of  these  he  has 
a  large  and  happy  collection,  which 
he  laughs  at  jollily  in  public  (for  his 
sense  of  humour  is  sufficient),  but  in 
the  privacy  of  his  chamber  he  some- 
times spreads  them  out  like  troutlet 
on  the  river's  bank  and  has  his  quiet 
thrills  of  exultation.  Having  lately 
left  Oxford,  he  is  facing  the  world 
confidently  with  nothing  to  impress 
it  except  these  and  a  scarf  he  won  at 
Fives  (beating  Hon.  Billy  Minhorn). 
He  has  not  yet  decided  whether  to  drop 
into  business  or  diplomacy  or  the  bar. 
(There  will  be  a  lot  of  fag  about  this); 
and  all  unknown  to  him  there  is  a  grim 
piece  of  waste  land  waiting  for  him  in 
Canada,  which  he  will  make  a  hash 
of,  or  it  will  make  a  man  of  him. 
Billy  will  be  there  too.) 


102  ROSALIND 

CHARLES  (on  the  threshold) .  I  beg  your  pardon 
awfully,  but  I  knocked  three  times. 

DAME  (liking  the  manner  of  him,  and  indeed 
it  is  the  nicest  manner  in  the  world). 
What 's  your  pleasure  ? 

CHARLES.  You  see  how  jolly  wet  my  things 
are.  (These  boys  get  on  delightful  terms  of 
intimacy  at  once.)  I  am  on  a  walking  tour 
— not  that  I  have  walked  much — (they  never 
boast;  he  has  really  walked  well  and  far) — 
and  I  got  caught  in  that  shower.  I 
thought  when  I  saw  a  house  that  you 
might  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  take 
my  jacket  off  and  warm  my  paws,  until 
I  can  catch  a  train. 

DAME  (unable  to  whisper  to  MRS.  PAGE  'He 
is  good-looking').  I  'm  sorry,  sir,  but  I 
have  let  the  kitchen  fire  out. 

CHARLES  (peeping  over  her  shoulder).  This 
fire ? 

DAME.  This  is  my  lodger's  room. 

CHARLES.  Ah,  I  see.  Still,  I  dare  say  that 
if  he  knew (He  has  edged  farther 


ROSALIND  103 

into  the  room,  and  becomes  aware  that 
there  is  a  lady  with  eyes  closed  on  the  sofa.) 
I  beg  your  pardon;  I  didn't  know  there 
was  any  one  here. 

(But  the  lady  on  the  sofa  replies  not? 
and  to  the  DAME  this  is  his  dis- 
missal.) 
DAME.  The  station  is  just  round  the  corner, 

and  there  is  a  waiting-room  there. 
CHARLES.    A    station    waiting-room    fire;    I 

know  them.     Is  she  asleep  ? 
DAME.  Yes. 

CHARLES  (who  nearly  always  gets  round  them 
when  he  pouts).  Then  can't  I  stay?    I 
won't  disturb  her. 
DAME  (obdurate).  I  'm  sorry. 
CHARLES  (cheerily — he  will  probably  do  well 
on  that  fruit-farm).  Heigho!    Well,  here 
is  for  the  station  waiting-room. 

(And  he  is  about  to  go  when  MRS. 
PAGE  signs  to  the  DAME  that  he  may 
stay.  We  have  given  the  talk  be- 
tween the  DAME  and  CHARLES  in 


104  ROSALIND 

order  to  get  it  over,  but  our  sterner 
eye  is  all  the  time  on  MRS.  PAGE. 
Her  eyes  remain  closed  as  if  in  sleep 
and  she  is  on  the  sofa  prone,  yet  for  the 
first  time  since  the  curtain  rose  she 
has  come  to  life.  As  if  she  knew  we 
were  watching  her  she  is  again  inert, 
but  there  was  a  twitch  of  the  mouth  a 
moment  ago  that  let  a  sunbeam  loose 
upon  her  face.  It  is  gone  already, 
popped  out  of  the  box  and  returned 
to  it  with  the  speed  of  thought.  Notice- 
able as  is  MRS.  PAGE'S  mischievous 
smile,  far  more  noticeable  is  her 
control  of  it.  A  sudden  thought 
occurs  to  us  that  the  face  we  had 
thought  stolid  is  made  of  elastic.) 
DAME  (cleverly).  After  all,  if  you  're  willing 

just  to  sit  quietly  by  the  fire  and  take 

a  book 

CHARLES.  Rather.     Any  book.     Thank  you 

immensely.     (And  in   his   delightful   way 

of  making  himself  at  home  he  whips  off  his 


ROSALIND  105 

knapsack  and  steps  inside  the  fender. 
'He  is  saucy,  thank  goodness,9  is  what  the 
DAME'S  glance  at  MRS.  PAGE  conveys. 
That  lady's  eyelids  flicker  as  if  she  had 
discovered  a  way  of  watching  CHARLES 
while  she  slumbers.  Anon  his  eye  alights 
on  the  photograph  that  has  already  been 
the  subject  of  conversation,  and  he  is  in- 
stantly exclamatory.) 

DAME  (warningly).  Now,  you  promised  not 
to  speak. 

CHARLES.  But  that  photograph.  How  funny 
you  should  have  it. 

DAME  (severely).  Hsh.    It 's  not  mine. 

CHARLES  (with  his  first  glance  of  interest  at 
the  sleeper) .  Hers  ? 

(The  eyelids  have  ceased  to  flicker.  It 
is  placid  MRS.  PAGE  again.  Never 
was  such  an  inelastic  face.) 

DAME.  Yes;  only  don't  talk. 

CHARLES.  But  this  is  priceless  (gazing  at  tlie 
photograph).  I  must  talk.  (He  gives  his 
reason.)  I  know  her  (a  reason  that  would 


106  ROSALIND 

be  complimentary  to  any  young  lady).  It 
is  Miss  Beatrice  Page. 

DAME  (who  knows  the  creature  man).  You 
mean  you  've  seen  her  ? 

CHARLES  (youthfully).  I  know  her  quite  well. 
I  have  had  lunch  with  her  twice.  She 
is  at  Monte  Carlo  just  now.  (Swelling)  I 
was  one  of  those  that  saw  her  off. 

DAME.  Yes,  that 's  the  place.  Read  what 
is  written  across  her  velvet  chest. 

CHARLES  (deciphering  the  writing  on  the 
photograph).  'To  darling  Mumsy  with 
heaps  of  kisses.'  (His  eyes  gleam.  Is 
he  in  the  middle  of  an  astonishing  adven- 
ture?) You  don't  tell  me —  Is  that ? 

DAME  (as  coolly  as  though  she  were  passing 
the  butter).  Yes,  that 's  her  mother.  And 
a  sore  trial  it  must  have  been  to  her  when 
her  girl  took  to  such  a  trade. 

CHARLES  (waving  aside  such  nonsense).  But  I 
say,  she  never  spoke  to  me  about  a  mother. 

DAME.  The  more  shame  to  her. 

CHARLES   (deeply  versed  in  the  traffic  of  the 


ROSALIND  107 

stage).  I  mean  she  is  famed  as  being 
almost  the  only  actress  who  doesn't  have 
a  mother. 

DAME  (bewildered).  What? 
CHARLES    (seeing   the    uselessness    of   laying 
pearls  before  this  lady).  Let  me  have  a 
look  at  her. 

DAME.  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  (But  an 
unexpected  nod  from  the  sleeper  indicates 
that  it  may  be  permitted.)  Oh,  well,  I 
see  no  harm  in  it  if  you  go  softly. 

(He  tiptoes  to  the  sofa,  but  perhaps 
MRS.  PAGE  is  a  light  sleeper,  for  she 
stirs  a  little.,  just  sufficiently  to  become 
more  compact,  while  the  slippers  rise 
into  startling  prominence.  Some 
humorous  dream,  as  it  might  be, 
slightly  extends  her  mouth  and  turns 
the  oval  of  her  face  into  a  round.  Her 
head  has  sunk  into  her  neck.  Simul- 
taneously, as  if  her  circulation  were 
suddenly  held  up,  a  shadow  passes 
over  her  complexion.  This  is  a  bad 


108  ROSALIND 

copy  of  the  MRS.  PAGE  we  have  seen 
hitherto,  and  will  give  CHARLES  a 
poor  impression  of  her.) 

CHARLES  (peering  over  the  slippers).  Yes, 
yes,  yes. 

DAME.  Is  she  like  the  daughter,  think 
you? 

CHARLES  (judicially).  In  a  way,  very.  Hair's 
not  so  pretty.  She 's  not  such  a  fine 
colour.  Heavier  build,  and  I  should  say 
not  so  tall.  None  of  Miss  Page's  dis- 
tinction, nothing  svelte  about  her.  As 
for  the  feet  (he  might  almost  have  said  the 

palisade) — the   feet (He  shudders   a 

little,  and  so  do  the  feet.) 

DAME.  She  is  getting  on,  you  see.  She  is 
forty  and  a  bittock. 

CHARLES.  A  whattock  ? 

DAME  (who  has  never  studied  the  Doric).  It 
may  be  a  whattock. 

CHARLES  (gallantly).  But  there's  something 
nice  about  her.  I  could  have  told  she 
was  her  mother  anywhere.  (With  which 


ROSALIND  109 

handsome  compliment  he  returns  to  the 
fire,  and  MRS.  PAGE,  no  doubt  much  grati- 
fied, throws  a  kiss  after  him.  She  also 
signs  to  the  DAME  a  mischievous  desire  to 
be  left  alone  with  this  blade. 
DAME  (discreetly).  Well,  I  '11  leave  you,  but, 
mind,  you  are  not  to  disturb  her. 

(She  goes,  with  the  pleasant  feeling 
that  there  are  two  clever  women  in 
the  house;  and  with  wide-open 
eyes  MRS.  PAGE  watches  CHARLES 
dealing  amorously  with  the  photo- 
graph. Soon  he  returns  to  her 
side,  and  her  eyes  are  closed,  but 
she  does  not  trouble  to  repeat  the 
trifling  with  her  appearance.  She 
probably  knows  the  strength  of  first 
impressions.) 

CHARLES  (murmuring  the  word  as  if  it  were 
sweet  music}.  Mumsy.  (With  conviction) 
You  lucky  mother. 

MRS.  PAGE  (in  a  dream).  Is  that  you, 
Beatrice  ? 


110  ROSALIND 

(This  makes  him  skurry  away,  but  he 
is  soon  back  again,  and  the  sound- 
ness of  her  slumber  annoys  him.) 
CHARLES  (in  a  reproachful  whisper).  Woman, 
wake   up   and   talk   to   me   about   your 
daughter. 

(The  selfish  thing  sleeps  on,  and  some- 
what gingerly  he  pulls  away  the 
cushion  from  beneath  her  head.  Nice 
treatment  for  a  lady.  MRS.  PAGE 
starts  up,  and  at  first  is  not  quite 
sure  where  she  is,  you  know.) 

MRS.  PAGE.  Why — what 

CHARLES  (contritely).  I  am  very  sorry.     I  'm 

afraid  I  disturbed  you. 

MRS.  PAGE  (blankly).  I  don't  know  you,  do  I  ? 
CHARLES    (who    has    his    inspirations).    No, 

madam,  but  I  wish  you  did. 
MRS.  PAGE  (making  sure  that  she  is  still  in 
the  DAME'S  cottage).  Who  are  you?  and 
what  are  you  doing  here  ? 
CHARLES    (for   truth   is   best).    My   name   is 
Roche.     I  am  nobody  in  particular.     I  'm 


ROSALIND  111 

just  the  usual  thing;  Eton,  Oxford,  and 
so  to  bed — as  Pepys  would  say.  I  am 
on  a  walking  tour,  on  my  way  to  the 
station,  but  there  is  no  train  till  seven, 
and  your  landlady  let  me  in  out  of  the 
rain  on  the  promise  that  I  wouldn't  dis- 
turb you. 

MRS.  PAGE  (taking  it  all  in  with  a  woman's 
quickness).  I  see.  (Suddenly)  But  you 
have  disturbed  me. 

CHARLES.  I  'm  sorry. 

MRS.  PAGE  (with  a  covert  eye  on  him).  It 
wasn't  really  your  fault.  This  cushion 
slipped  from  under  me,  and  I  woke  up. 

CHARLES  (manfully).  No,  I — I  pulled  it 
away. 

MRS.  PAGE  (indignant).  You  did!  (She 
advances  upon  him  like  a  stately  ship). 
Will  you  please  to  tell  me  why  ? 

CHARLES  (feebly).  I  didn't  mean  to  pull  so 
hard.  (Then  he  gallantly  leaps  into  the 
breach.)  Madam,  I  felt  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  leave  this  house  without  first 


112  ROSALIND 

waking  you  to  tell  you  of  the  feelings  of 
solemn  respect  with  which  I  regard  you. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Really. 

CHARLES.  I  suppose  I  consider  you  the 
cleverest  woman  in  the  world. 

MRS.  PAGE.  On  so  short  an  acquaintance  ? 

CHARLES  (lucidly).  I  mean,  to  have  had  the 
priceless  cleverness  to  have  her 

MRS.  PAGE.  Have  her?  (A  light  breaks 
on  her.)  My  daughter  ? 

CHARLES.  Yes,  I  know  her.  (As  who  should 
say,  Isn't  it  a  jolly  world?) 

MRS.  PAGE.  You  know  Beatrice  personally  ? 

CHARLES  (not  surprised  that  it  takes  her  a 
little  time  to  get  used  to  the  idea).  I  assure 
you  I  have  that  honour.  (In  one  mouth- 
ful) I  think  she  is  the  most  beautiful 
and  the  cleverest  woman  I  have  ever 
known. 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  thought  I  was  the  cleverest. 

CHARLES.  Yes,  indeed;  for  I  think  it  even 
cleverer  to  have  had  her  than  to  be  her. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Dear  me.     I  must  wait  till  I 


ROSALIND  113 

get  a  chair  before  thinking  this  out.  (A 
chair  means  two  chairs  to  her,  as  we  have 
seen,  but  she  gives  the  one  on  which  her  feet 
wish  to  rest  to  CHARLES.)  You  can  have 
this  half,  Mr. — ah — Mr. ? 

CHARLES.  Roche. 

MRS.  PAGE  (resting  from  her  labours  of  the  last 
minute).  You  are  so  flattering,  Mr. 
Roche,  I  think  you  must  be  an  actor 
yourself. 

CHARLES  (succinctly).  No,  I  'm  nothing.  My 
father  says  I  'm  just  an  expense.  But 
when  I  saw  Beatrice's  photograph  there 
(the  nice  boy  pauses  a  moment  because  this 
is  the  first  time  he  has  said  the  name  to  her 
mother;  he  is  taking  of  his  hat  to  it)  with 
the  inscription  on  it 

MRS.  PAGE.  That  foolish  inscription. 

CHARLES  (arrested).  Do  you  think  so? 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  mean  foolish,  because  she 
has  quite  spoilt  the  picture  by  writing 
across  the  chest.  That  beautiful  gown 
ruined. 


114  ROSALIND 

CHARLES   (fondly  tolerant).   They  all  do  it, 

even   across   their    trousers;    the   men   I 

mean. 
MRS.  PAGE  (interested}.  Do  they?    I  wonder 

why. 
CHARLES  (remembering  now  that  other  people 

don't  do  it) .  It  does  seem  odd.   (But  after  all 

the  others  are  probably  missing  something.) 
MRS.  PAGE  (shaking  her  wise  head).  I  know 

very  little  about  them,  but  I  am  afraid 

they  are  an  odd  race. 
CHARLES   (who  has  doted  on  many  of  them, 

though  they  were  usually  not  sitting  at  his 

table).    But   very    attractive,    don't   you 

think  ?    The  ladies  I  mean. 
MRS.  PAGE  (luxuriously).  I  mix  so  little  with 

them.     I  am  not  a  Bohemian,  you  see. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  I  have  never  even  seen 

Beatrice  act  ? 
CHARLES.  You  haven't?    How  very  strange. 

Not  even  her  Rosalind  ? 
MRS.   PAGE    (stretching   herself).    No.     Is   it 

cruel  to  her  ? 


ROSALIND  115 

CHARLES  (giving  her  one).  Cruel  to  yourself. 
(But  this  is  no  policy  for  an  admirer  of 
Miss  Page.)  She  gave  me  her  photo- 
graph as  Rosalind.  (Hurriedly)  Not  a 
postcard. 

MRS.  PAGE  (who  is  very  likely  sneering) .  With 
writing  across  the  chest,  I  '11  be  bound. 

CHARLES  (stoutly).  Do  you  think  I  value  it 
the  less  for  that  ? 

MRS.  PAGE  (unblushing).  Oh  no,  the  more. 
You  have  it  framed  on  your  mantelshelf, 
haven't  you,  so  that  when  the  other  young 
bloods  who  are  just  an  expense  drop  in 
they  may  read  the  pretty  words  and  say, 
'Roche,  old  man,  you  are  going  it.' 

CHARLES.  Do  you  really  think  that  I 

MRS.  PAGE.  Pooh,  that  was  what  Beatrice 
expected  when  she  gave  it  you. 

CHARLES.  Silence !  (She  raises  her  eyebrows, 
and  he  is  stricken.)  I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  should  have  remembered  that  you  are 
her  mother. 

MRS.  PAGE  (smiling  on  him).  I  beg  yours.    I 


116  ROSALIND 

should  like  to  know,  Mr.  Roche,  where 
you  do  keep  that  foolish  photograph. 

CHARLES  (with  a  swelling).  Why,  here.  (He 
produces  it  in  a  case  from  an  honoured 
pocket.)  Won't  you  look  at  it? 

MRS.  PAGE  (with  proper  solemnity).  Yes.  It 
is  one  I  like. 

CHARLES  (cocking  his  head).  It  just  misses  her 
at  her  best. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Her  best?  You  mean  her  way 
of  screwing  her  nose  ? 

CHARLES  (who  was  never  sent  up  for  good  for 
lucidity — or  perhaps  he  was).  That  comes 
into  it.  I  mean — I  mean  her  naivete. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Ah  yes,  her  naivete.  I  have 
often  seen  her  practising  it  before  a  glass. 

CHARLES  (with  a  disarming  smile).  Excuse 
me;  you  haven't,  you  know. 

MRS.  PAGE  (disarmed).  Haven't  I?  Well, 
well,  I  dare  say  she  is  a  wonder,  but,  mind 
you,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  it  is  for 
her  nose  that  she  gets  her  salary.  May 
I  read  what  is  written  on  the  chest? 


ROSALIND  117 

(She  reads.)  The  baggage !  (Shaking  her 
head  at  him.)  But  this  young  lady  on 
the  other  side,  who  is  she,  Lothario  ? 
CHARLES  (boyish  and  stumbling).  That  is  my 
sister.  She  died  three  years  ago.  We 
were  rather — chums — and  she  gave  me 
that  case  to  put  her  picture  in.  So 
I  did. 

(He  jerks  it  out,  glaring  at  her  to  see  if 
she  is  despising  him.  But  MRS. 
PAGE,  though  she  cannot  be  senti- 
mental for  long,  can  be  very  good  at  it 
while  it  lasts.) 

MRS.  PAGE  (quite  moved).  Good  brother. 
And  it  is  a  dear  face.  But  you  should  not 
have  put  my  Beatrice  opposite  it,  Mr. 
Roche:  your  sister  would  not  have  liked 
that.  It  was  thoughtless  of  you. 
CHARLES.  My  sister  would  have  liked  it  very 
much.  (Floundering)  When  she  gave  me 
the  case  she  said  to  me — you  know  what 
girls  are — she  said,  'If  you  get  to  love  a 
woman,  put  her  picture  opposite  mine, 


118  ROSALIND 

and  then  when  the  case  is  closed  I  shall 
be  kissing  her.' 

(His  face  implores  her  not  to  think  him 
a  silly.  She  is  really  more  troubled 
than  we  might  have  expected.) 

MRS.  PAGE  (rising).  Mr.  Roche,  I  never 
dreamt 

CHARLES.  And  that  is  why  I  keep  the  two 
pictures  together. 

MRS.  PAGE.  You  shouldn't. 

CHARLES.  Why  shouldn't  I?  Don't  you 
dare  to  say  anything  to  me  against  my 
Beatrice. 

MRS.  PAGE  (with  the  smile  of  ocean  on  her 
face).  Your  Beatrice.  You  poor  boy. 

CHARLES.  Of  course  I  haven't  any  right  to 
call  her  that.  I  haven't  spoken  of  it  to 
her  yet.  I  'm  such  a  nobody,  you  see. 
(Very  nice  and  candid  of  him,  but  we  may 
remember  that  his  love  has  not  set  him 
trying  to  make  a  somebody  out  of  the 
nobody.  Are  you  perfectly  certain, 
CHARLES,  that  to  be  seen  with  the  cele- 


ROSALIND  119 

brated  PAGE  is  not  almost  more  delightful 
to  you  than  to  be  with  her?  Her  mother 
at  all  events  gives  him  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  or  so  we  interpret  her  sudden  action. 
She  tears  the  photograph  in  two.  He  pro- 
tests indignantly.) 

MRS.  PAGE.  Mr.  Roche,  be  merry  and  gay 
with  Beatrice  as  you  will,  but  don't  take 
her  seriously.  (She  gives  him  back  the  case.) 
I  think  you  said  you  had  to  catch  a  train. 

CHARLES  (surveying  his  torn  treasure.  He  is 
very  near  to  tears,  but  decides  rather 
recklessly  to  be  a  strong  man).  Not  yet; 
I  must  speak  of  her  to  you  now. 

MRS.  PAGE  (a  strong  woman  without  having 
to  decide).  I  forbid  you. 

CHARLES  (who,  if  he  knew  himself,  might  see 
that  a  good  deal  of  gloomy  entertainment 
could  be  got  by  stopping  here  and  stalking 
London  as  the  persecuted  of  his  lady's 
mamma).  I  have  the  right.  There  is  no 
decent  man  who  hasn't  the  right  to  tell  a 
woman  that  he  loves  her  daughter. 


120  ROSALIND 

MRS.  PAGE  (determined  to  keep  him  to  earth 
though  she  has  to  hold  him  down).  She 
doesn't  love  you,  my  friend. 

CHARLES  (though  a  hopeless  passion  would  be 
another  rather  jolly  thing).  How  do  you 
know  ?  You  have  already  said 

MRS.  PAGE  (rather  desperate).  I  wish  you  had 
never  come  here. 

CHARLES  (manfully).  Why  are  you  so  set 
against  me?  I  think  if  I  was  a  woman 
I  should  like  at  any  rate  to  take  a  good 
straight  look  into  the  eyes  of  a  man  who 
said  he  was  fond  of  her  daughter.  You 
might  have  to  say  'No'  to  him,  but — 
often  you  must  have  had  thoughts  of 
the  kind  of  man  who  would  one  day 
take  her  from  you,  and  though  I  may 
not  be  the  kind,  I  assure  you,  I — I  am 
just  as  fond  of  her  as  if  I  were.  (Not 
bad  for  CHARLES.  Sent  up  for  good  this 
time.) 

MRS.  PAGE  (beating  her  hands  together  in 
distress).  You  are  torturing  me,  Charles. 


ROSALIND  121 

CHARLES.  But  why?  Did  I  tell  you  my 
name  was  Charles?  (With  a  happy 
thought.)  She  has  spoken  of  me  to  you ! 
What  did  she  say  ? 

(//  he   were   thinking   less   of  himself 

and  a  little  of  the  woman  before  him 

he  would  see  that  she  has  turned  into 

an  exquisite  supplicant.) 

MRS.  PAGE.  Oh,  boy — you  boy!    Don't  say 

anything  more.     Go  away  now. 
CHARLES.  I  don't  understand. 
MRS.  PAGE.  I  never  had  an  idea  that  you 
cared  in  that  way.     I  thought  we  were 
only  jolly  friends. 
CHARLES.  We? 

MRS.  PAGE  (with  a  wry  lip  for  the  word  that 
has  escaped  her).  Charles,  if  you  must 
know,  can't  you  help  me  out  a  little? 
Don't  you  see  at  last  ? 

(She  has  come  to  him  with  undulations 
as  lovely  as  a  swallow's  flight, 
mocking,  begging,  not  at  all  the 
woman  we  have  been  watching;  she 


122  ROSALIND 

has  become  suddenly  a  disdainful, 
melting  armful.  But  CHARLES  does 
not  see.) 

CHARLES  (the  obtuse).  I — I 

MRS.  PAGE.  Very  well.  But  indeed  I  am 
sorry  to  have  to  break  your  pretty  toy. 
(Drooping  still  farther  on  her  stem.) 
Beatrice,  Mr.  Roche,  has  not  had  a 
mother  this  many  a  year.  Do  you  see 
now? 

CHARLES.  No. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Well,  well.  (Abjectly)  Beat- 
rice, Mr.  Roche,  is  forty  and  a  bittock. 

CHARLES.  I — you — but — oh  no. 

MRS.  PAGE  (for  better,  for  worse).  Yes,  I  am 
Beatrice.  (He  looks  to  the  photograph  to 
rise  up  and  give  her  the  lie.)  The  writing 
on  the  photograph?  A  jest.  I  can  ex- 
plain that. 

CHARLES.  But — but  it  isn't  only  on  the  stage 
I  have  seen  her.  I  know  her  off 
too. 

MRS.   PAGE.   A   little.    I   can   explain   that 


ROSALIND  123 

also.     (He  is  a  very  woeful  young  man.) 

I  am  horribly  sorry,  Charles. 

CHARLES  (with  his  last  kick).  Even  now 

MRS.  PAGE.  Do  you  remember  an  incident 

with  a  pair  of  scissors  one  day  last  June 

in  a  boat  near  Maidenhead  ? 
CHARLES.  When  Beatrice — when  you — when 

she — cut  her  wrist  ? 
MRS.   PAGE.   And  you  kissed  the  place  to 

make  it  well.    It  left  its  mark. 

CHARLES.  I  have  seen  it  since. 

,< 

MRS.  PAGE.  You  may  see  it  again,  Charles. 
(She  offers  him  her  wrist,  but  he  does  not 
look.  He  knows  the  mark  is  there.  For 
the  moment  the  comic  spirit  has  deserted 
her,  so  anxious  is  she  to  help  this  tragic 
boy.  She  speaks  in  the  cooing  voice  that 
proves  her  to  be  Beatrice  better  than  any 
wrist-mark.)  Am  I  so  terribly  unlike 
her  as  you  knew  her. 

CHARLES  (ah,  to  be  stabbed  with  the  voice  you 
have  loved).  No,  you  are  very  like,  only 
— yes,  I  know  now  it'  s  you. 


124  ROSALIND 

MRS.  PAGE  (pricked  keenly).  Only  I  am  look- 
ing my  age  to-day.  (Forlorn)  This  is  my 
real  self,  Charles — if  I  have  one.  Why 
don't  you  laugh,  my  friend.  I  am  laugh- 
ing. (No,  not  yet,  though  she  will  be  pre- 
sently.) You  won't  give  me  away,  will 
you  ?  (He  shakes  his  head.)  I  know  you 
won't  now,  but  it  was  my  first  fear  when 
I  saw  you.  (With  a  sigh.)  And  now,  I 
suppose,  I  owe  you  an  explanation. 

CHARLES  (done  with  the  world).  Not  unless 
you  wish  to. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Oh  yes,  I  wish  to.  (The 
laughter  is  bubbling  up  now.)  Only  it  will 
leave  you  a  wiser  and  a  sadder  man. 
You  will  never  be  twenty-three  again, 
Charles. 

CHARLES  (recalling  his  distant  youth).  No,  I 
know  I  won't. 

MRS.  PAGE  (now  the  laughter  is  playing  round 
her  mouth).  Ah,  don't  take  it  so  lugu- 
briously. You  will  only  jump  to  twenty- 
four,  say.  (She  sits  down  beside  him  to 


ROSALIND  125 

make  full  confession.)  You  must  often 
have  heard  gossip  about  actresses'  ages  ? 

CHARLES.  I  didn't  join  in  it. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Then  you  can't  be  a  member  of 
a  club. 

CHARLES.  If  they  began  it 

MRS.  PAGE.  You  wouldn't  listen  ? 

CHARLES.  Not  about  you.  I  dare  say  I  lis- 
tened about  the  others. 

MRS.  PAGE.  You  nice  boy.  And  now  to 
make  you  twenty-four.  (Involuntarily, 
true  to  the  calling  she  adorns,  she  makes  the 
surgeon's  action  of  turning  up  her  sleeves.) 
You  have  seen  lots  of  plays,  Charles  ? 

CHARLES.  Yes,  tons. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Have  you  noticed  that  there  are 
no  parts  in  them  for  middle-aged  ladies  ? 

CHARLES  (who  has  had  too  happy  a  life  to 
notice  this  or  almost  anything  else).  Aren't 
there  ? 

MRS.  PAGE.  Oh  no,  not  for  *  stars.'  There 
is  nothing  for  them  between  the  ages  of 
twenty-nine  and  sixty.  Occasionally  one 


126  ROSALIND 

of  the  less  experienced  dramatists  may 
write  such  a  part,  but  with  a  little  coax- 
ing we  can  always  make  him  say,  'She 
needn't  be  more  than  twenty-nine.'  And 
so,  dear  Charles,  we  have  succeeded  in 
keeping  middle-age  for  women  off  the 
stage.  Why,  even  Father  Time  doesn't 
let  on  about  us.  He  waits  at  the  wings 
with  a  dark  cloth  for  us,  just  as  our  dressers 
wait  with  dust-sheets  to  fling  over  our  ex- 
pensive frocks;  but  we  have  a  way  with 
us  that  makes  even  Father  Time  reluctant 
to  cast  his  cloak;  perhaps  it  is  the 
coquettish  imploring  look  we  give  him 
as  we  dodge  him;  perhaps  though  he  is 
an  old  fellow  he  can't  resist  the  powder 
on  our  pretty  noses.  And  so  he  says, '  The 
enchanting  baggage,  I  '11  give  her  another 
year.'  When  you  come  to  write  my 
epitaph,  Charles,  let  it  be  in  these  de- 
licious words,  'She  had  a  long  twenty- 
nine.' 
CHARLES.  But  off  the  stage — I  knew  you  off. 


ROSALIND  127 

(Recalling  a  gay  phantom)  Why,  I  was 
one  of  those  who  saw  you  into  your  train 
for  Monte  Carlo. 

MRS.  PAGE.  You  thought  you  did.  That 
made  it  easier  for  me  to  deceive  you  here. 
But  I  got  out  of  that  train  at  the  next 
station. 

(She  makes  a  movement  to  get  out  of  the 
train  here.     We  begin  to  note  how  she 
suits  the  action  to  the  word  in  obedience 
to  Shakespeare's  fatal  injunction;  she 
cannot    mention    the    tongs    without 
forking  two  of  her  fingers.) 
CHARLES.  You  came  here  instead  ? 
MRS.  PAGE.  Yes,  stole  here. 
CHARLES  (surveying  the  broken  pieces  of  her). 
Even   now   I   can   scarcely —    You   who 
seemed  so  young  and  gay. 
MRS.  PAGE  (who  is  really  very  good-natured, 
else  would  she  clout  him  on  the  head).  I  was 
a  twenty-nine.     Oh,  don't  look  so  solemn, 
Charles.     It  is  not  confined  to  the  stage. 
The  stalls  are  full  of  twenty-nines.     Do 


128  ROSALIND 

you  remember  what  fun  it  was  to  help 
me  on  with  my  cloak?  Remember  why 
I  had  to  put  more  powder  on  my  chin 
one  evening  ? 

CHARLES  (with  a  groan).  It  was  only  a  few 
weeks  ago. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Yes.  Sometimes  it  was  Mr. 
Time  I  saw  in  the  mirror,  but  the  wretch 
only  winked  at  me  and  went  his  way. 

CHARLES  (ungallantly) .  But  your  whole  ap- 
pearance— so  girlish  compared  to 

MRS.  PAGE  (gallantly}.  To  this.  I  am  com- 
ing to  'this,'  Charles.  (Confidentially; 
no  one  can  be  quite  so  delightfully  con- 
jidential  as  BEATRICE  PAGE.)  You  see, 
never  having  been  more  than  twenty -nine, 
not  even  in  my  sleep — for  we  have  to  keep 
it  up  even  in  our  sleep — I  began  to  wonder 
what  middle-age  was  like.  I  wanted  to 
feel  the  sensation.  A  woman's  curiosity, 
Charles. 

CHARLES.  Still,  you  couldn't 

MRS.     PAGE.     Couldn't     I!     Listen.     Two 


ROSALIND  129 

summers  ago,  instead  of  going  to  Biarritz 
— see  pictures  of  me  in  the  illustrated 
papers  stepping  into  my  motor-car,  or 
going  a  round  of  country  houses — see 
photographs  of  us  all  on  the  steps — the 
names,  Charles,  read  from  left  to  right — 
instead  of  doing  any  of  these  things  I 
pretended  I  went  there,  and  in  reality  I 
came  down  here,  determined  for  a  whole 
calendar  month  to  be  a  middle-aged  lady. 
I  had  to  get  some  new  clothes,  real,  cosy, 
sloppy,  very  middle-aged  clothes;  and 
that  is  why  I  invented  mamma;  I  got 
them  for  her,  you  see.  I  said  she  was 
about  my  figure,  but  stouter  and  shorter, 
as  you  see  she  is. 

CHARLES  (his  eyes  wandering  up  and  down 
her — and  nowhere  a  familiar  place).  I  can't 
make  out 

MRS.  PAGE.  No,  you  are  too  nice  a  boy  to 
make  it  out.  You  don't  understand  the 
difference  that  a  sober  way  of  doing  one's 
hair,  and  the  letting  out  of  a  few  strings, 


130  ROSALIND 

and  sundry  other  trifles  that  are  no 
trifles,  make;  but  you  see  I  vowed  that 
if  the  immortal  part  of  me  was  to  get  a 
novel  sort  of  rest,  my  figure  should  get 
it  also.  Voila!  And  thus  all  cosy  within 
and  without,  I  took  lodgings  in  the  most 
out-of-the-world  spot  I  knew  of,  in  the 
hope  that  here  I  might  find  the  lady  of 
whom  I  was  in  search. 

CHARLES.  Meaning? 

MRS.  PAGE  (rather  grimly).  Meaning  myself. 
Until  two  years  ago  she  and  I  had  never 
met. 

CHARLES  (the  cynic).  And  how  do  you  like 
her? 

MRS.  PAGE.  Better  than  you  do,  young  sir. 
She  is  really  rather  nice.  I  don't  suppose 
I  could  do  with  her  all  the  year  round, 
but  for  a  month  or  so  I  am  just  wallow- 
ing in  her.  You  remember  my  entrancing 
little  shoes?  (she  wickedly  exposes  her 
flapping  slippers).  At  local  dances  I  sit 
out  deliciously  as  a  wall-flower.  Drop  a 


ROSALIND  131 

tear,    Charles,   for  me   as   a  wall-flower. 

I  play  cards,  and  the  engaged  ladies  give 

me  their  confidences  as  a  dear  old  thing; 

and  I  never,  never  dream  of  setting  my 

cap  at  their  swains. 
CHARLES.    How    strange.    You    who,    when 

you  liked 

MRS.    PAGE    (plaintively).    Yes,  couldn't    I, 

Charles? 
CHARLES  (falling  into  the  snare).  It  was  just 

the  wild  gaiety  of  you. 
MRS.  PAGE  (who  is  in  the  better  position  to 

know).  It  was  the  devilry  of  me. 
CHARLES.    Whatever    it    was,    it   bewitched 

us. 
MRS.  PAGE  (candidly,  but  forgiving  herself). 

It  oughtn't  to. 
CHARLES.  If  you  weren't  all  glee  you  were 

the  saddest  thing  on  earth. 
MRS.  PAGE.  But  I  shouldn't  have  been  sad 

on  your  shoulders,  Charles. 
CHARLES    (appealing).   You   weren't   sad   on 

all  our  shoulders,  were  you  ? 


132  ROSALIND 

MRS.  PAGE  (reassuring).  No,  not  all. 

Oh  the  gladness  of  her  gladness  when  she's  glad, 

And  the  sadness  of  her  sadness  when  she's  sad, 

But  the  gladness  of  her  gladness 

And  the  sadness  of  her  sadness 

Are  as  nothing,  Charles, 

To  the  badness  of  her  badness  when  she's  bad. 

(This  dagger -to-her-breast  business  is 
one  of  her  choicest  tricks  of  fence, 
and  is  very  dangerous  if  you  can  coo 
like  Beatrice.) 

CHARLES  (pinked).  Not  a  word  against  your- 
self. 

MRS.  PAGE  (already  seeing  what  she  has  been 
up  to).  Myself!    I  suppose  even  now  I 
am  only  playing  a  part. 
CHARLES  (who  has  become  her  handkerchief). 

No,  no,  this  is  your  real  self. 
MRS.  PAGE  (warily).  Is  it?    I  wonder. 
CHARLES.  I  never  knew  any  one  who  had 

deeper  feelings. 

MRS.   PAGE.   Oh,   I  am  always  ready  with 
whatever  feeling  is  called  for.     I  have  a 


ROSALIND  133 

wardrobe  of  them,  Charles.  Don't  blame 
me,  blame  the  public  of  whom  you  are 
one;  the  pitiless  public  that  has  made 
me  what  I  am.  I  am  their  slave  and 
their  plaything,  and  when  I  please  them 
they  fling  me  nuts.  (Her  voice  breaks,  no 
voice  can  break  so  naturally  as  BEATRICE'S.) 
I  would  have  been  a  darling  of  a  wife — 
don't  you  think  so,  Charles? — but  they 
wouldn't  let  me.  I  am  only  a  bundle 
of  emotions;  I  have  two  characters  for 
each  day  of  the  week.  Home  became 
a  less  thing  to  me  than  a  new  part. 
Charles,  if  only  I  could  have  been  a 
nobody.  Can't  you  picture  me,  such 
a  happy,  unknown  woman,  dancing  along 
some  sandy  shore  with  half  a  dozen 
little  boys  and  girls  hanging  on  to  my 
skirts?  When  my  son  was  old  enough, 
wouldn't  he  and  I  have  made  a  rather 
pretty  picture  for  the  king  the  day  he 
joined  his  ship.  And  I  think  most  of 


134  ROSALIND 

all  I  should  have  loved  to  deck  out  my 
daughter  in  her  wedding-gown. 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laughing 

mirror, 
Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair — 

But  the  public  wouldn't  have  it,  and  I 
had  to  pay  the  price  of  my  success. 

CHARLES  (heart-broken  for  that  wet  face). 
Beatrice ! 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  became  a  harum-scarum, 
Charles;  sometimes  very  foolish — (With 
a  queer  insight  into  herself)  chiefly 
through  good-nature  I  think.  There 
were  moments  when  there  was  nothing 
I  wouldn't  do,  so  long  as  I  was  all  right 
for  the  play  at  night.  Nothing  else 
seemed  to  matter.  I  have  kicked  over 
all  the  traces,  my  friend.  You  remember 
the  Scottish  poet  who 

Keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame, 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low 

And  stained  his  name. 


ROSALIND  135 

(Sadly  enough)  Thoughtless  follies  laid 
her  low,  Charles,  and  stained  her  name. 

CHARLES  (ready  to  fling  down  his  glove  in 
her  defence).  I  don't  believe  it.  No,  no, 
Beatrice — Mrs.  Page 

MRS.  PAGE.  Ah,  it 's  Mrs.  Page  now. 

CHARLES.  You  are  crying. 

MRS.  PAGE  (with  some  satisfaction).  Yes,  I 
am  crying. 

CHARLES.  This  is  terrible  to  me.  I  never 
dreamt  your  life  was  such  a  tragedy. 

MRS.  PAGE  (coming  to).  Don't  be  so  con- 
cerned. I  am  crying,  but  all  the  time 
I  am  looking  at  you  through  the  corner 
of  my  eye  to  see  if  I  am  doing  it  well . 

CHARLES  (hurt).  Don't — don't. 

MRS.  PAGE  (well  aware  that  she  will  always 
be  her  best  audience).  Soon  I  '11  be  laugh- 
ing again.  When  I  have  cried,  Charles, 
then  it  is  time  for  me  to  laugh. 

CHARLES.  Please,  I  wish  you  wouldn't. 

MRS.  PAGE  (already  in  the  grip  of  another 
devil).  And  from  all  this,  Charles,  you 


136  ROSALIND 

have  so  nobly  offered  to  save  me.  You 
are  prepared  to  take  me  away  from  this 
dreadful  life  and  let  me  be  my  real  self. 
(CHARLES  distinctly  blushes.)  Charles,  it 
is  dear  and  kind  of  you,  and  I  accept 
your  offer.  (She  gives  him  a  come-and- 
take-me  curtsey  and  awaits  his  rapturous 
response.  The  referee  counts  ten,  but 
CHARLES  has  not  risen  from  the  floor. 
Goose  that  he  is;  she  trills  with  merriment, 
though  there  is  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  it.) 
You  see  the  time  for  laughing  has  come 
already.  You  really  thought  I  wanted 
you,  you  conceited  boy.  (Rather  grandly) 
I  am  not  for  the  likes  of  you. 

CHARLES  (abject).  Don't  mock  me.  I  am 
very  unhappy. 

MRS.  PAGE  (putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
in  her  dangerous,  careless,  kindly  way). 
There,  there,  it  is  just  a  game.  All  life  's 
a  game. 

(It   is    here   that   the    telegram    comes. 
MRS.  QUICKLY  brings  it  in;  and  the 


ROSALIND  137 

better  to  read  it,  but  with  a  glance  at 
CHARLES  to  observe  the  effect  on  him, 
MRS.  PAGE  puts  on  her  large  horn 
spectacles.     He  sighs.) 
DAME.   Is   there   any   answer?    The   girl   is 

waiting. 
MRS.  PAGE.  No  answer,  thank  you. 

(MRS.  QUICKLY  goes,  wondering  what 
those  two  have  had  to  say  to  each 
other.) 
CHARLES  (glad  to  be  a  thousand  miles  away  from 

recent  matters).  Not  bad  news,  I  hope? 
MRS.    PAGE    (wiping    her   spectacles).    From 
my  manager.     It  is  in  cipher,  but  what 
it  means  is  that  the  summer  play  isn't 
drawing,  and  that  they  have  decided  to 
revive  As  You  Like  It.     They  want  me 
back  to  rehearse  to-morrow  at  eleven. 
CHARLES  (indignant).  They  can't  even  let  you 

have  a  few  weeks. 

MRS.  PAGE  (returning  from  London).  What? 
Heigho,  is  it  not  sad?  But  I  had  been 
warned  that  this  might  happen. 


138  ROSALIND 

CHARLES  (evolving  schemes} .  Surely  if  you 

(But  she  has  summoned  MRS.  QUICKLY.) 

MRS.  PAGE  (plaintively).  Alas,  Dame,  our 
pleasant  gossips  have  ended  for  this  year. 
I  am  called  back  to  London  hurriedly. 

DAME.  Oh  dear,  the  pity !  (She  has  already 
asked  herself  what  might  be  in  the  telegram.) 
Your  girl  has  come  back,  and  she  wants 
you  ?  Is  that  it  ? 

MRS.  PAGE.  That 's  about  it.  (Her  quiet, 
sad  manner  says  that  we  must  all  dree  our 
weird.)  I  must  go.  Have  I  time  to 
catch  the  express  ? 

CHARLES  (dispirited) .  It  leaves  at  seven. 

MRS.  PAGE  (bravely).  I  think  I  can  do  it.  Is 
that  the  train  you  are  to  take  ? 

CHARLES.  Yes,  but  only  to  the  next  station. 

MRS.  PAGE  (grown  humble  in  her  misfortune). 
Even  for  that  moment  of  your  company 
I  shall  be  grateful.  Dame,  this  gentle- 
man turns  out  to  be  a  friend  of  Beatrice. 

DAME.  So  he  said,  but  I  suspicioned  him. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Well,  he  is.     Mr.  Roche,  this  is 


ROSALIND  139 

my  kind  Dame.     I  must  put  a  few  things 
together. 

DAME.  If  I  can  help 

MRS.  PAGE.  You  can  send  on  my  luggage  to- 
morrow; but  here  is  one  thing  you  might 
do  now.  Run  down  to  the  Rectory  and 
tell  them  why  I  can't  be  there  for  the 
cutting-out. 
DAME.  I  will. 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  haven't  many  minutes. 
Good-bye,  you  dear,  for  I  shall  be  gone 
before  you  get  back.  I  '11  write  and  settle 
everything.  (With  a  last  look  round)  Cosy 
room  !  I  have  had  a  lovely  time. 

(Her  face  quivers  a  little,  but  she  does 
not  break  down.  She  passes,  a 
courageous  figure,  into  the  bedroom. 
The  slippers  plop  as  she  mounts  the 
steps  to  it.  Her  back  looks  older 
than  we  have  seen  it;  at  least  such 
is  its  intention.) 

DAME  (who  has  learned  the  uselessness  of  rail- 
ing against  fate) .  Dearie  dear,  what  a  pity. 


140  ROSALIND 

CHARLES  (less  experienced).  It 's  horrible. 

DAME  (wisely  turning  fate  into  a  gossip). 
Queer  to  think  of  a  lady  like  Mrs.  Page 
having  a  daughter  that  jumps  about  for 
a  living.  (Good  God,  thinks  CHARLES, 
how  little  this  woman  knows  of  life.)  What 
I  sometimes  fear  is  that  the  daughter 
doesn't  take  much  care  of  her.  I  dare  say 
she  's  fond  of  her,  but  does  she  do  the  little 
kind  things  for  her  that  a  lady  come  Mrs. 
Page's  age  needs  ? 

CHARLES  (wincing).  She  's  not  so  old. 

DAME  (whose  mind  is  probably  running  on 
breakfast  in  bed  and  such-like  matters). 
No,  but  at  our  age  we  are  fond  of — of 
quiet,  and  I  doubt  she  doesn't  get  it. 

CHARLES.  I  know  she  doesn't. 

DAME  (stumbling  among  fine  words  which 
attract  her  like  a  display  of  drapery).  She 
says  it 's  her  right  to  be  out  of  the  hurly- 
burly  and  into  what  she  calls  the  delicious 
twilight  of  middle-age. 

CHARLES  (with  dizzying  thoughts  in  his  brain). 


ROSALIND  141 

If  she  is  so  fond  of  it,  isn't  it  a  shame 
she  should  have  to  give  it  up  ? 
DAME.  The  living  here. 

CHARLES.  Not  so  much  that  as  being  middle- 
aged. 

DAME.    Give   up   being   middle-aged !    How 
could  she  do  that? 

(He  is  saved  replying  by  MRS.  PAGE, 

who  calls  from  the  bedroom.) 
MRS.  PAGE.  Dame,  I  hear  you  talking,  and 
you  promised  to  go  at  once. 

(The  DAME  apologises,  and  is  off. 
CHARLES  is  left  alone  with  his  great 
resolve,  which  is  no  less  than  to  do 
one  of  the  fine  things  of  history.  It 
carries  him  toward  the  bedroom  door, 
but  not  quickly;  one  can  also  see 
that  it  has  a  rival  who  is  urging  him 
to  fly  the  house.) 
CHARLES  (with  a  drum  beating  inside  him). 

Beatrice,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  at  once. 
MRS.  PAGE  (through  the  closed  door).  As  soon 
as  I  have  packed  my  bag. 


142  ROSALIND 

CHARLES  (finely) .  Don't  pack  it. 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  must. 

CHARLES.  I  have  something  to  say. 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  can  hear  you. 

CHARLES  (who  had  been  honourably  mentioned 
for  the  school  prize  poem).  Beatrice,  until 
now  I  hadn't  really  known  you  at  all. 
The  girl  I  was  so  fond  of,  there  wasn't 
any  such  girl. 

MRS.  PAGE.  Oh  yes,  indeed  there  was. 

CHARLES  (now  in  full  sail  for  a  hero's  crown) . 
There  was  the  dear  woman  who  was 
Rosalind,  but  she  had  tired  of  it.  Rosa- 
lind herself  grew  old  and  gave  up  the 
forest  of  Arden,  but  there  was  one  man 
who  never  forgot  the  magic  of  her  being 
there;  and  I  shall  never  forget  yours. 
(Strange  that  between  the  beatings  of  the 
drum  he  should  hear  a  little  voice  within 
him  calling,  'Ass,  Charles,  you  ass!'  or 
words  to  that  effect.  But  he  runs  nobly  on.) 
My  dear,  I  want  to  be  your  Orlando  to  the 
end.  (Surely  nothing  could  be  grander.  He 


ROSALIND  143 

is    chagrined   to    get    no  response    beyond 
what  might  be  the  breaking  of  a  string.)     Do 
you  hear  me  ? 
MRS.  PAGE.  Yes.     (A  brief  answer,  but  he  is 

off  again.) 

CHARLES.  I  will  take  you  out  of  that  hurly- 
burly  and  accompany  you  into  the  de- 
licious   twilight    of    middle-age.     I    shall 
be  staid  in  manner  so  as  not  to  look  too 
young,  and  I  will  make  life  easy  for  you 
in  your  declining  years.     ('Ass,  Charles, 
you  ass!')     Beatrice,  do  come  out. 
MRS.  PAGE.  I  am  coming  now.     (She  comes 
out     carrying     her  bag.)     You     naughty 
Charles,  I  heard  you  proposing  to  mamma. 
(The  change  that  has  come  over  her  is 
far  too  subtle  to  have  grown  out  of 
a  wish  to  surprise  him,  but  its  effect 
on  CHARLES  is  as  if  she  had  struck 
him  in  the  face. 

Too  subtle  also  to  be  only  an  affair  of 
clothes,  though  she  is  now  in  bravery 
hot  from  Mdme.  Make-the-woman 


144  ROSALIND 

tackle  by  Monsieur,  a  Rosalind  cap 
jaunty  on  her  head,  her  shoes  so 
small  that  one  wonders  if  she  ever 
has  to  light  a  candle  to  look  for  her 
feet.  She  is  a  tall,  slim  young 
creature,  easily  breakable;  svelte  is 
the  word  that  encompasses  her  as 
we  watch  the  flow  of  her  figure,  her 
head  arching  on  its  long  stem,  and 
the  erect  shoulders  that  we  seem,  God 
bless  us,  to  remember  as  a  little 
hunched.  Her  eyes  dance  with  life 
but  are  easily  startled,  because  they 
are  looking  fresh  upon  the  world, 
wild  notes  in  them  as  from  the  woods. 
Not  a  woman  this  but  a  maid,  or 
so  it  seems  to  CHARLES. 
She  has  been  thinking  very  little  about 
him,  but  is  properly  gratified  by 
what  she  reads  in  his  face.) 

Do    I    surprise    you    as    much    as    that, 

Charles  ? 

(She    puts    down    her    bag,    BEATRICE 


ROSALIND  145 

PAGE'S  famous  bag.  If  you  do  not 
know  it,  you  do  not,  alas,  know 
BEATRICE.  It  is  seldom  out  of  her 
hand,  save  when  cavaliers  have  been 
sent  in  search  of  it.  She  is  always 
late  for  everything  except  her  call, 
and  at  the  last  moment  she  sweeps 
all  that  is  most  precious  to  her  into 
the  bag,  and  runs.  Jewels?  Oh  no, 
pooh;  letters  from  nobodies,  postal 
orders  for  them,  a  piece  of  cretonne  that 
must  match  she  forgets  what,  bits  of 
string  she  forgets  why,  a  book  given 
her  by  darling  What's-his-name,  a 
broken  miniature,  part  of  a  watch- 
chain,  a  dog's  collar,  such  a  neat 
parcel  tied  with  ribbon  (golden  gift  or 
biscuits?  she  means  to  find  out  some 
day),  a  purse,  but  not  the  right  one,  a 
bottle  of  gum  without  a  cork,  and  a 
hundred  good-natured  scatter-brained 
things  besides.  Her  servants  (who  all 
adore  her)  hate  the  bag  as  if  it  were  a 


146  ROSALIND 

little  dog;  swains  hate  it  because  it  gets 
lost  and  has  to  be  found  in  the  middle 
of  a  declaration;  managers  hate  it 
because  she  carries  it  at  rehearsals, 
when  it  bursts  open  suddenly  like  a 
too  tightly  laced  lady,  and  its  contents 
are  spread  on  the  stage;  authors 
make  engaging  remarks  about  it 
until  they  discover  that  it  has  an 
artful  trick  of  bursting  because  she 
does  not  know  her  lines.  If  you 
complain,  really  furious  this  time, 
she  takes  you  all  in  her  arms.  Well, 
well,  but  what  we  meant  to  say  was 
that  when  BEATRICE  sees  CHARLES'S 
surprise  she  puts  down  her  bag.) 
CHARLES.  Good  God !  Is  there  nothing 
real  in  life? 

(She  curves  toward  him  in  one  of  those 
swallow-flights  which  will  haunt  the 
stage  long  after  BEATRICE  PAGE  is 
but  a  memory.  What  they  say 
and  how  they  said  it  soon  passes 


ROSALIND  147 

away;  what  lives  on  is  the  pretty 
movements  like  BEATRICE'S  swallow- 
flights.  All  else  may  go,  even  the 
golden  voices  go,  but  the  pretty  move- 
ments remain  and  play  about  the  stage 
for  ever.  They  are  the  only  ghosts 
of  the  theatre.) 

MRS.  PAGE.  Heaps  of  things.  Rosalind  is 
real,  and  I  am  Rosalind;  and  the  forest 
of  Arden  is  real,  and  I  am  going  back 
to  it;  and  cakes  and  ale  are  real,  and 
I  am  to  eat  and  drink  them  again. 
Everything  is  real  except  middle-age. 

(She  puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  in 
the  old,  dangerous,  kindly,  too  friendly 
way.  That  impulsive  trick  of  yours, 
madam,  has  a  deal  to  answer  for.) 

CHARLES.  But  you  said 

(She  flings  up  her  hands  in  mockery; 
they  are  such  subtle  hands  that  she 
can  stand  with  her  back  to  you,  and, 
putting  them  behind  her,  let  them  play 
the  drama.) 


148  ROSALIND 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  said !  (She  is  gone  from  him 
in  another  flight.)  I  am  Rosalind  and  I 
am  going  back.  Hold  me  down,  Charles, 
unless  you  want  me  to  go  mad  with 
glee. 

CHARLES  (gripping  her).  I  feel  as  if  in  the 
room  you  came  out  of  you  have  left  the 
woman  who  went  into  it  five  minutes  ago. 

MRS.  PAGE  (slipping  from  him  as  she  slips 
from  all  of  us).  I  have,  Charles,  I  have. 
I  left  the  floppy,  sloppy,  old  frump  in  a 
trunk  to  be  carted  to  the  nearest  place 
where  they  store  furniture;  and  I  tell 
you,  my  friend  (she  might  have  said 
friends,  for  it  is  a  warning  to  the  Charleses 
of  every  age),  if  I  had  a  husband  and 
children  I  would  cram  them  on  top  of 
the  cart  if  they  sought  to  come  between 
me  and  Arden. 

CHARLES  (with  a  shiver) .  Beatrice ! 

MRS.  PAGE.  The  stage  is  waiting,  the 
audience  is  calling,  and  up  goes  the  cur- 
tain. Oh,  my  public,  my  little  dears, 


ROSALIND  149 

come  and  foot  it  again  in  the  forest,  and 
tuck  away  your  double  chins. 

CHARLES.  You  said  you  hated  the  public. 

MRS.  PAGE.  It  was  mamma  said  that.  They 
are  my  slaves  and  my  playthings,  and  I 
toss  them  nuts.  (He  knows  not  how  she 
got  there,  but  for  a  moment  of  time  her  head 
caressingly  skims  his  shoulder,  and  she  is 
pouting  in  his  face.)  Every  one  forgives 
me  but  you,  Charles,  every  one  but  you. 

CHARLES  (delirious).  Beatrice,  you  unutter- 
able delight 

MRS.  PAGE  (worlds  away).  Don't  forgive  me 
if  you  would  rather  not. 

Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate. 

CHARLES  (pursuing  her).  There  is  no  one 
like  you  on  earth,  Beatrice.  Marry  me, 
marry  me  (as  if  he  would  catch  her) . 

MRS.  PAGE  (cruelly).  As  a  staff  for  my  de- 
clining years  ? 

CHARLES.  Forget  that  rubbish  and  marry 
me,  you  darling  girl. 


150  ROSALIND 

MRS.  PAGE.  I  can't  and  I  won't,  but  I  'm 
glad  I  am  your  darling  girl.  (Very  likely 
she  is  about  to  be  delightful  to  him,  but 
suddenly  she  sees  her  spoil-sport  of  a  bag.) 
I  am  trusting  to  you  not  to  let  me  miss 
the  train. 

CHARLES.  I  am  coming  with  you  all  the  way. 
(As  if  she  needed  to  be  told.)  We  had 
better  be  off. 

MRS.  PAGE  (seizing  the  bag).  Charles,  as  we 
run  to  the  station  we  will  stop  at  every 
telegraph  post  and  carve  something  sweet 
on  it — 'From  the  East  to  Western  Ind' — 

CHARLES  (inspired).  'No  jewel  is  like  Rosa- 
lind'— 

MRS.  PAGE.  '  Middle-age  is  left  behind ' — 

CHARLES.  'For  ever  young  is  Rosalind.' 
Oh,  you  dear,  Motley  's  the  only  wear. 

MRS.  PAGE.  And  all  the  way  up  in  the  train, 
Charles,  you  shall  woo  me  exquisitely. 
Nothing  will  come  of  it,  but  you  are 
twenty-three  again,  and  you  will  have 
a  lovely  time. 


ROSALIND  151 

CHARLES.  I  '11  win  you,  I  '11  win  you. 
MRS.  PAGE.  And  eventually  you  will  marry 
the    buxom    daughter    of    the    wealthy 

tallow-chandler 

CHARLES.  Never,  I  swear. 
MRS.  PAGE   (screwing  her  nose).  And  bring 
your  children  to  see  me  playing  the  Queen 
in  Hamlet. 

(Here  CHARLES  ROCHE,  bachelor,  kisses 
the  famous  BEATRICE  PAGE.  Another 
sound  is  heard.) 

CHARLES.  The  whistle  of  the  train. 
MRS.  PAGE.  Away,  away !     'Tis  Touchstone 
calling.     Fool,    I    come,    I    come.     (To 
bedroom  door)  Ta-ta,  mamma. 
(They  are  gone.) 


THE  WILL 


THE  WILL 

THE  scene  is  any  lawyer's  office. 

It  may  be,  and  no  doubt  will  be,  the  minute 
reproduction  of  some  actual  office,  with  all 
the  characteristic  appurtenances  thereof,  every 
blot  of  ink  in  its  proper  place;  but  for  the 
purpose  in  hand  any  bare  room  would  do  just 
as  well.  The  only  thing  essential  to  the  room, 
save  the  two  men  sitting  in  it,  is  a  framed  en- 
graving on  the  wall  of  Queen  Victoria,  which 
dates  sufficiently  the  opening  scene,  and  will  be 
changed  presently  to  King  Edward;  afterwards 
to  King  George,  to  indicate  the  passing  of  time. 
No  other  alteration  is  called  for.  Doubtless 
different  furniture  came  in,  and  the  tiling 
of  the  fire-place  was  renewed,  and  at  last  some 
one  discovered  that  the  flowers  in  the  window- 
box  were  dead,  but  all  that  is  as  immaterial 
to  the  action  as  the  new  blue-bottles;  the 
succession  of  monarchs  will  convey  allegori- 

155 


156  THE  WILL 

colly  the  one  thing  necessary,  that  time  is 
passing,  but  that  the  office  of  Devizes,  Devizes, 
and  Devizes  goes  on. 

The  two  men  are  DEVIZES  SENIOR  and 
JUNIOR.  SENIOR,  who  is  middle-aged,  suc- 
ceeded to  a  good  thing  years  ago,  and  as  the 
curtain  rises  we  see  him  bent  over  his  table 
making  it  a  better  thing.  It  is  pleasant  to 
think  that  before  he  speaks  he  adds  another 
thirteen  and  fourpence,  say,  to  the  fortune  of 
the  firm. 

JUNIOR  is  quite  a  gay  dog,  twenty-three, 
and  we  catch  him  skilfully  balancing  an  office 
ruler  on  his  nose.  He  is  recently  from  Oxford — 

If  you  show  him  in  Hyde  Park,  lawk,  how  they  will 

stare, 
Tho'  a  very  smart  figure  in  Bloomsbury  Square. 

Perhaps  JUNIOR  is  a  smarter  figure  in  the 
office  (among  the  clerks')  than  he  was  at  Oxford, 
but  this  is  one  of  the  few  things  about  him  that 
his  shrewd  father  does  not  know. 

There  moves  to  them  by  the  only  door  into 
the  room  a  middle-aged  clerk  called  SURTEES, 


THE  WILL  157 

who  is  perhaps  worth  looking  at,  though  his 
manner  is  that  of  one  who  has  long  ceased  to 
think  of  himself  as  of  any  importance  to  either 
God  or  man.  Look  at  him  again,  however 
(which  few  would  do) ,  and  you  may  guess  that 
he  has  lately  had  a  shock — touched  a  living 
wire — and  is  a  little  dazed  by  it.  He  brings 
a  card  to  MR.  DEVIZES,  SENIOR,  who  looks  at 
it  and  shakes  his  head. 

MR.    DEVIZES.    'Mr.    Philip    Ross/    Don't 

know  him. 

SURTEES    (who  has   an   expressionless   voice). 
He  says  he  wrote  you  two  days  ago,  sir, 
explaining  his  business. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  I  have  had  no  letter  from  a 

Philip  Ross. 
ROBERT.  Nor  I. 

(He  is  more  interested  in  his  feat  with 
the  ruler  than  in  a  possible  client, 
but  SURTEES  looks  at  him  oddly.) 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Surtees  looks  as  if  he  thought 
you  had. 


158  THE  WILL 

(ROBERT  obliges  by  reflecting  in  the 
light  of  SURTEES'S  countenance.) 

ROBERT.  Ah,  you  think  it  may  have  been 
that  one,  Surty  ? 

MR.  DEVIZES  (sharply).  What  one? 

ROBERT.  It  was  the  day  before  yesterday. 
You  were  out,  father,  and  Surtees  brought 
me  in  some  letters.  His  mouth  was  wide 
open.  (Thoughtfully)  I  suppose  that  was 
why  I  did  it. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  What  did  you  do  ? 

ROBERT.  I  must  have  suddenly  recalled  a 
game  we  used  to  play  at  Oxford.  You 
try  to  fling  cards  one  by  one  into  a  hat. 
It  requires  great  skill.  So  I  cast  one 
of  the  letters  at  Surtees's  open  mouth, 
and  it  missed  him  and  went  into  the  fire. 
It  may  have  been  Philip  Ross's  letter. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (wrinkling  his  brows).  Too  bad, 
Robert. 

ROBERT  (blandly).  Yes,  you  see  I  am  out  of 
practice. 

SURTEES.  He  seemed  a  very  nervous  person, 


THE  WILL  159 

sir,  and  quite  young.     Not  a  gentleman 

of  much  consequence. 
ROBERT  (airily).  Why  not  tell  him  to  write 

again  ? 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Not  fair. 

SURTEES.  But  she 

ROBERT.  She?    Who? 

SURTEES.  There  is  a  young  lady  with  him, 

sir.     She  is  crying. 
ROBERT.  Pretty? 
SURTEES.  I  should  say  she  is  pretty,  sir,  in 

a  quite  inoffensive  way. 
ROBERT  (for  his  own  gratification).  Ha ! 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Well,  when  I  ring  show  them  in. 
ROBERT   (with  roguish  finger).   And  let  this 

be  a  lesson  to  you,  Surty,  not  to  go  about 

your   business    with    your   mouth    open. 

(SURTEES  tries  to  smile  as  requested,  but 

with  poor  success.)     Nothing  the  matter, 

Surty?     You    seem    to    have    lost    your 

sense  of  humour. 
SURTEES  (humbly  enough).  I  'm  afraid  I  have, 

sir.     I  never  had  very  much,  Mr.  Robert. 


160  THE  WILL 

(He   goes    quietly.     There   has    been    a 
suppressed   emotion    about   him   that 
makes  the  incident  poignant.} 
ROBERT.     Anything     wrong     with     Surtees, 

father  ? 
MB.  DEVIZES.  Never  mind  him.     I  am  very 

angry  with  you,  Robert. 
ROBERT  (like  one  conceding  a  point  in  a  de- 
bating society).  And  justly. 
MR.  DEVIZES  (frowning).  All  we  can  do  is 

to  tell  this  Mr.  Ross  that  we  have  not 

read  his  letter. 
ROBERT  (bringing  his  knowledge  of  the  world 

to  bear) .  Is  that  necessary  ? 
MR.  DEVIZES.  We  must  admit  that  we  don't 

know  what  he  has  come  about. 
ROBERT  (tolerant  of  his  father's  limitations). 

But  don't  we  ? 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Do  you  ? 
ROBERT.  I  rather  think  I  can  put  two  and 

two  together. 
MR.    DEVIZES.    Clever   boy !    Well,    I   shall 

leave  them  to  you. 


THE  WILL  161 

ROBERT.  Right. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Your  first  case,  Robert. 

ROBERT  (undismayed).  It  will  be  as  good  as 

a  play  to  you  to  sit  there  and  watch  me 

discovering  before  they   have   been   two 

minutes  in  the  room  what  is  the  naughty 

thing  that  brings  them  here. 
MR.  DEVIZES  (drily).  I  am  always  ready  to 

take  a  lesson  from  the  new  generation. 

But   of   course   we   old   fogies   could   do 

that  also. 
ROBERT.  How? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  By  asking  them. 
ROBERT.  Pooh.     What  did  I  go  to  Oxford 

for? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  God  knows.     Are  you  ready  ? 
ROBERT.  Quite. 

(MR.  DEVIZES  rings.) 
MR.  DEVIZES.  By  the  way,  we  don't  know 

the  lady's  name. 

ROBERT.  Observe  me  finding  it  out. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Is  she  married  or  single  ? 
ROBERT.  I  '11  know  at  a  glance.     And  mark 


162  THE   WILL 

me,  if  she  is  married  it  is  our  nervous 
gentleman  who  has  come  between  her 
and  her  husband;  but  if  she  is  single  it 
is  little  Wet  Face  who  has  come  between 
him  and  his  wife. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  A  Daniel ! 

(A  young  man  and  woman  are  shown 
in:  very  devoted  to  each  other,  though 
ROBERT  does  not  know  it.  Yet  it 
is  the  one  thing  obvious  about  them; 
more  obvious  than  his  cheap  suit, 
which  she  presses  so  carefully  beneath 
the  mattress  every  night,  or  than  the 
strength  of  his  boyish  face.  Think- 
ing of  him  as  he  then  was  by  the  light 
of  subsequent  events  one  wonders 
whether  if  he  had  come  alone  some- 
thing disquieting  could  have  been  read 
in  that  face  which  was  not  there  while 
she  was  by.  Probably  not;  it  was 
certainly  already  there,  but  had  not  yet 
reached  the  surface.  With  her,  too, 
though  she  is  to  be  what  is  called 


THE  WILL  163 

changed  before  we  see  them  again,  all 
seems  serene;  no  warning  signals;  no- 
thing in  the  way  of  their  happiness  in 
each  other  but  this  alarming  visit  to 
a  lawyer's  office.  The  stage  direc- 
tion might  be  'Enter  two  lovers.' 
He  is  scarcely  the  less  nervous  of  the 
two,  but  he  enters  stoutly  in  front  of 
her  as  if  to  receive  the  first  charge. 
She  has  probably  nodded  valiantly 
to  him  outside  the  door,  where  she  let 
go  his  hand.) 

ROBERT  (master  of  the  situation).  Come  in, 
Mr.  Ross  (and  he  bows  reassuringly  to  the 
lady).  My  partner — indeed  my  father. 
(MR.  DEVIZES  bows  but  remains  in  the 
background.) 

PHILIP  (with  a  gulp).  You  got  my  letter? 
ROBERT.  Yes — yes. 
PHILIP.  I  gave  you  the  details  in  it. 
ROBERT.  Yes,  I  have  them  all  in  my  head. 
(Cleverly)   You  will  sit  down,  Miss —    I 
don't  think  I  caught  the  name. 


164  THE  WILL 

(As  much  as  to  say,  '  You  see,  father, 
I    spotted    that    she    was    single    at 
once.') 
MR.  DEVIZES  (who  has  also  formed  his  opinion). 

You  didn't  ask  for  it,  Robert. 
ROBERT  (airily).  Miss — ? 
PHILIP.  This  is  Mrs.  Ross,  my  wife. 

(ROBERT  is  a  little  taken  aback,  and  has 
a  conviction  that  his  father  is  smiling.) 
ROBERT.     Ah    yes,    of    course;    sit    down, 
please,  Mrs.  Ross. 

(She  sits  as  if  this  made  matters  rather 

worse.) 
PHILIP  (standing  guard  by  her  side).  My  wife 

is  a  little  agitated. 

ROBERT.    Naturally.     (He    tries    a    'feeler.') 
These  affairs — very  painful  at  the  time — 
but  one  gradually  forgets. 
EMILY   (with  large  eyes).  That  is  what  Mr. 
Ross  says,  but  somehow  I  can't  help — (the 
eyes  fill) .     You  see,  we  have  been  married 
only  four  months. 
ROBERT.  Ah — that  does   make  it — yes,  cer- 


THE  WILL  165 

tainly.     (He  becomes  the  wife's  champion, 

and  frowns  on  PHILIP.) 
PHILIP.  I  suppose  the  sum  seems  very  small 

to  you  ? 

ROBERT  (serenely).  I  confess  that  is  the  im- 
pression it  makes  on  me. 
PHILIP.  I  wish  it  was  more. 
ROBERT   (at   a  venture).   You   are   sure  you 

can't  make  it  more  ? 
PHILIP.  How  can  I  ? 
ROBERT.  Ha ! 
EMILY   (with  sudden  spirit).  I  think  it 's  a 

great  deal. 

PHILIP.  Mrs.  Ross  is  so  nice  about  it. 
ROBERT   (talcing  a  strong  line).   I  think  so. 

But  she  must  not  be  taken  advantage  of. 

And  of  course  we  shall  have  something 

to  say  as  to  the  amount. 
PHILIP  (blankly) .  In  what  way  ?     There  it  is. 
ROBERT  (guardedly).  Hum.     Yes,  in  a  sense. 
EMILY  (breaking  down).  Oh  dear! 
ROBERT  (more  determined  than  ever  to  do  his 

best  for  this  wronged  woman).  I  am  very 


166  THE  WILL 

sorry,  Mrs.  Ross.  (Sternly)  I  hope,  sir, 
you  realise  that  the  mere  publicity  to  a 
sensitive  woman 

PHILIP.  Publicity? 

ROBERT  (feeling  that  he  has  got  him  on  the 
run}.  Of  course  for  her  sake  we  shall 
try  to  arrange  things  so  that  the  names 
do  not  appear.  Still 

PHILIP.  The  names  ? 

(By  this  time  EMILY  is  in  tears.) 

EMILY.  I  can't  help  it.     I  love  him  so. 

ROBERT  (still  benighted).  Enough  to  forgive 
him  ?  (Seeing  himself  suddenly  as  a  media- 
tor) Mrs.  Ross,  is  it  too  late  to  patch 
things  up  ? 

PHILIP  (now  in  flame).  What  do  you  mean, 
sir? 

MR.  DEVIZES  (who  has  been  quietly  enjoying 
himself).  Yes,  Robert,  what  do  you  mean 
precisely  ? 

ROBERT.  Really  I — (he  tries  brow-beating) 
I  must  tell  you  at  once,  Mr.  Ross,  that 
unless  a  client  gives  us  his  fullest  con- 


THE  WILL  167 

fidence  we  cannot  undertake  a  case  of 

this  kind. 
PHILIP.  A  case  of  what  kind,  sir?    If  you 

are  implying  anything  against  my  good 

name 

ROBERT.    On    your    honour,    sir,    is    there 

nothing  against  it  ? 
PHILIP.  I  know  of  nothing,  sir. 
EMILY.  Anything  against  my  husband,  Mr. 

Devizes !     He  is  an  angel. 
ROBERT  (suddenly  seeing  thai  little  Wet  Face 

must  be  the  culprit}.  Then  it  is  you. 
EMILY.  Oh,  sir,  what  is  me  ? 
PHILIP.  Answer  that,  sir. 
ROBERT.    Yes,    Mr.    Ross,    I  will.     (But   he 

finds  he  cannot.)     On  second  thoughts  I 

decline.     I  cannot  believe  it  has  been  all 

this  lady's  fault,  and  I  decline  to  have 

anything  to  do  with  such  a  painful  case. 
MR.  DEVIZES  (promptly).  Then  I  will  take 

it  up.  / 

PHILIP  (not  to  be  placated).  I  think  your  son 

has  insulted  me. 


168  THE  WILL 

EMILY.  Philip,  come  away. 

MR.   DEVIZES.   One  moment,  please.     As  I 

did  not  see  your  letter,  may  I  ask  Mr. 

Ross  what  is  your  business  with  us  ? 
PHILIP.  I  called  to  ask  whether  you  would 

be  so  good  as  to  draw  up  my  will. 
ROBERT  (blankly) .  Your  will !     Is  that  all  ? 
PHILIP.  Certainly. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Now  we  know,  Robert. 
ROBERT.  But  Mrs.  Ross's  agitation  ? 
PHILIP  (taking  her  hand).  She  feels  that  to 

make  my  will  brings  my  death  nearer. 
ROBERT.  So  that 's  it. 
PHILIP.  It  was  all  in  the  letter. 
MR.    DEVIZES    (coyly).    Anything    to    say, 

Robert? 
ROBERT.  Most — ah — extremely —     (He  has  an 

inspiration.)     But  even  now  I  'm  puzzled. 

You  are  Edgar  Charles  Ross  ? 
PHILIP.  No,  Philip  Ross. 
ROBERT   (brazenly).  Philip  Ross?     We  have 

made  an  odd  mistake,  father.     (There  is 

a    twinkle    in    MR.    DEVIZES'S    eye.    He 


THE  WILL  169 

watches  interestedly  to  see  how  his  son  is  to 
emerge  from  the  mess.)  The  fact  is,  Mrs. 
Ross,  we  are  expecting  to-day  a  Mr. 
Edgar  Charles  Ross  on  a  matter — well — 
of  a  kind —  Ah  me.  (With  fitting  gravity) 
His  wife,  in  short. 

EMILY  (who  has  not  read  the  newspapers  in 
vain).  How  awful.  How  sad. 

ROBERT.  Sad  indeed.  You  will  quite  under- 
stand that  professional  etiquette  pre- 
vents my  saying  one  word  more. 

PHILIP.  Yes,  of  course — we  have  no  desire — 
But  I  did  write. 

ROBERT.  Assuredly.  But  about  a  will. 
That  is  my  father's  department.  No 
doubt  you  recall  the  letter  now,  father  ? 

MR.  DEVIZES  (who  if  he  won't  hinder  won't 
help).  I  can't  say  I  do. 

ROBERT  (unabashed).  Odd.  You  must  have 
overlooked  it. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Ha.  At  all  events,  Mr.  Ross, 
I  am  quite  at  your  service  now. 

PHILIP.  Thank  you. 


170  THE  WILL 

ROBERT  (still  ready  to  sacrifice  himself  on  the 
call  of  duty).  You  don't  need  me  any 
more,  father? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  No,  Robert;  many  thanks. 
You  run  off  to  your  club  now  and  have 
a  bit  of  lunch.  You  must  be  tired. 
Send  Surtees  in  to  me.  (To  his  clients) 
My  son  had  his  first  case  to-day. 

PHILIP  (politely).  I  hope  successfully. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Not  so  bad.  He  rather 
bungled  it  at  first,  but  he  got  out  of  a 
hole  rather  cleverly.  I  think  you  '11 
make  a  lawyer  yet,  Robert. 

ROBERT.  Thank  you,  father.  (He  goes 
jauntily,  with  a  flower  in  his  button-hole.) 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Now,  Mr.  Ross. 

(The  young  wife's  hand  goes  out  for 
comfort  and  finds  PHILIP'S  waiting 
for  it.) 

PHILIP.  What  I  want  myself  is  that  the 
will  should  all  go  into  one  sentence,  'I 
leave  everything  of  which  I  die  possessed 
to  my  beloved  wife.' 


THE  WILL  171 

MR.  DEVIZES  (thawing  to  the  romance  of  this 
young    couple).    Well,    there    have    been 
many  worse  wills  than  that,  sir. 
(EMILY  is  emotional.) 

PHILIP.  Don't  give  way,  Emily. 

EMILY.  It  was  those  words,  'of  which  I 
die  possessed.'  (Imploringly)  Surely  he 
doesn't  need  to  say  that — please,  Mr. 
Devizes  ? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Certainly  not.  I  am  confident 
I  can  draw  up  the  will  without  mention- 
ing death  at  all. 

EMILY  (huskily).  Oh,  thank  you. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  At  the  same  time,  of  course, 
in  a  legal  document  in  which  the  widow 

is  the  sole 

(EMILY  again  needs  attention.) 

PHILIP  (reproachfully).  What  was  the  need 
of  saying  'widow'  ? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Ross. 
I  unreservedly  withdraw  the  word 
'widow.'  Forgive  a  stupid  old  solicitor. 
(She  smiles  gratefully  through  her  tears. 


172  THE  WILL 

SURTEES  comes  in.}  Surtees,  just  take  a 
few  notes,  please.  (SURTEES  sits  in  the 
background  and  takes  notes.}  The  facts 
of  the  case,  as  I  understand,  Mrs.  Ross, 
are  these:  Your  husband  (Quickly) — who 
is  in  the  prime  of  health — but  knows  life 
to  be  uncertain 

EMILY.  Oh! 

MR.  DEVIZES.  — though  usually,  as  we  learn 
from  holy  script  itself,  it  lasts  seven  times 
ten  years — and  believing  that  he  will  in  all 
probability  live  the  allotted  span,  never- 
theless, because  of  his  love  of  you 
thinks  it  judicious  to  go  through  the 
form — it  is  a  mere  form — of  making  a 
will. 

EMILY  (fervently).  Oh,  thank  you. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Any  details,  Mr.  Ross  ? 

PHILIP.  I  am  an  orphan.  I  live  at  Belvedere, 
14  Tulphin  Road,  Hammersmith. 

EMILY  (to  whom  the  address  has  a  seductive 
sound}.  We  live  there. 

PHILIP.  And  I  am  a  clerk  in  the  employ  of 


THE  WILL  173 

Curar    and     Gow,     the    foreign  coaling 

agents. 

MR.    DEVIZES.    Yes,   yes.     Any   private   in- 
come ? 

(They  cannot  help  sniggering  a  little  at 

the  quaint  question.) 
PHILIP.  Oh  no ! 

MR.  DEVIZES.  I  see  it  will  be  quite  a  brief  will. 
PHILIP  (to  whom  the  remark  sounds  scarcely 

worthy  of  a  great  occasion}.  My  income  is 

a  biggish  one. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Yes? 
EMILY  (important).  He  has  £170  a  year. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Ah. 
PHILIP.   I   began   at   £60.     But  it  is  going 

up,  Mr.   Devizes,  by  leaps  and  bounds. 

Another  £15  this  year. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Good. 

PHILIP  (darkly) .  I  have  a  certain  ambition. 
EMILY  (eagerly).  Tell  him,  Philip. 
PHILIP   (with  a  big  breath).  We  have  made 

up  our  minds  to  come  to  £365  a  year 

before  I — retire. 


174  THE  WILL 

EMILY.  That  is  a  pound  a  day. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (smiling  sympathetically  on 
them).  So  it  is.  My  best  wishes. 

PHILIP.  Thank  you.  Of  course  the  furnish- 
ing took  a  good  deal. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  It  would. 

EMILY.  He  insisted  on  my  having  the  very 
best.  (She  ceases.  She  is  probably  think- 
ing of  her  superb  spare  bedroom.) 

PHILIP.  But  we  are  not  a  penny  in  debt; 
and  I  have  £200  saved. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  I  think  you  have  made  a  brave 
beginning. 

EMILY.  They  have  the  highest  opinion  of 
him  in  the  office. 

PHILIP.  Then  I  am  insured  for  £500. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  I  am  glad  to  hear  that. 

PHILIP.  Of  course  I  would  like  to  leave  her 
a  house  in  Kensington  and  a  carriage  and 
pair. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Who  knows,  perhaps  you  will. 

EMILY.  Oh! 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Forgive  me. 


THE  WILL  175 

EMILY.  What  would  houses  and  horses  be 
to  me  without  him ! 

MR.  DEVIZES  (soothingly}.  Quite  so.  What 
I  take  Mr.  Ross  to  mean  is  that  when 
he  dies — if  he  ever  should  die — every- 
thing is  to  go  to  his — his  spouse. 

PHILIP  (dogged).  Yes. 

EMILY  (dogged).  No. 

PHILIP  (sighing).  This  is  the  only  difference 
we  have  ever  had.  Mrs.  Ross  insists  on 
certain  bequests.  You  see,  I  have  two 
cousins,  ladies,  not  well  off,  whom  I  have 
been  in  the  way  of  helping  a  little.  But 
in  my  will,  how  can  I  ? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  You  must  think  first  of  your 
wife. 

PHILIP.  But  she  insists  on  my  leaving  £50 
to  each  of  them.  (He  looks  appealingly 
to  his  wife.) 

EMILY  (grandly).  £100. 

PHILIP.  £50. 

EMILY.  Dear,  £100. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Let  us  say  £75. 


176  THE  WILL 

PHILIP  (reluctantly).  Very  well. 

EMILY.  No,  £100. 

PHILIP.  She  '11  have  to  get  her  way.     Here 
are  their  names  and  addresses. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Anything  else  ? 

PHILIP  (hurriedly).  No. 

EMILY.  The  convalescent  home,  dear.   He  was 
in  it  a  year  ago,  and  they  were  so  kind. 

PHILIP.  Yes,  but 

EMILY.    £10.     (He  has  to  yield,   with   a  re- 
proachful, admiring  look.) 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Then  if  that  is  all,  I  won't  de- 
tain you.     If  you  look  in  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Ross,    about    this    time,    we    shall    have 
everything  ready  for  you. 
( Their  faces  fall.) 

EMILY.  Oh,  Mr.  Devizes,  if  only  it  could  all 
be  drawn  up  now,  and  done  with. 

PHILIP.  You  see,  sir,  we  are  screwed  up  to  it 
to-day. 

('Our  fate  is  in  your  hands,'  they  might 
be  saying,  and  the  lawyer  smiles  to 
find  himself  such  a  power.) 


THE  WILL  177 

MR.  DEVIZES  (looking  at  his  watch).  Well,  it 
certainly  need  not  take  long.  You  go 
out  and  have  lunch  somewhere,  and  then 
come  back. 

EMILY.  Oh,  don't  ask  me  to  eat. 

PHILIP.  We  are  too  excited. 

EMILY.  Please  may  we  just  walk  about  the 
street  ? 

MR.  DEVIZES  (smiling).  Of  course  you  may, 
you  ridiculous  young  wife. 

EMILY.  I  know  it 's  ridiculous  of  me,  but 
I  am  so  fond  of  him. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Yes,  it  is  ridiculous.  But 
don't  change;  especially  if  you  get  on  in 
the  world,  Mr.  Ross. 

PHILIP.  No  fear ! 

EMILY  (backing  from  the  will,  which  may  now 
be  said  to  be  in  existence).  And  please 
don't  give  us  a  copy  of  it  to  keep.  I 
would  rather  not  have  it  in  the  house. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (nodding  reassuringly).  In  an 
hour's  time.  (They  go,  and  the  lawyer 
has  his  lunch,  which  is  simpler  than 


178  THE  WILL 

ROBERT'S:  a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  wine. 
He  speaks  as  he  eats.)  You  will  get  that 
ready,  Surtees.  Here  are  the  names  and 
addresses  he  left.  (Cheerily)  A  nice 
couple. 

SURTEES  (who  is  hearing  another  voice).  Yes, 
sir. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (unbending).  Little  romance  of 
its  kind.  Makes  one  feel  quite  gay. 

SURTEES.  Yes,  sir. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (struck  perhaps  by  the  deadness 
of  his  voice).  You  don't  look  very  gay, 
Surtees. 

SURTEES.  I'  m  sorry,  sir.  We  can't  all  be 
gay.  (He  is  going  out  without  looking  at 
his  employer.)  I  '11  see  to  this,  sir. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Stop  a  minute.  Is  there  any- 
thing wrong?  (SURTEES  has  difficulty 
in  answering^  and  MR.  DEVIZES  goes  to 
him  kindly.)  Not  worrying  over  that 
matter  we  spoke  about?  (SURTEES  in- 
clines his  head.)  Is  the  pain  worse  ? 

SURTEES.  It 's  no  great  pain,  sir. 


THE  WILL  179 

MR.  DEVIZES  (uncomfortably).  I'm  sure  it's 
not — what  you  fear.  Any  specialist 
would  tell  you  so. 

SURTEES  (without  looking  up).  I  have  been 
to  one,  sir — yesterday. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Well? 

SURTEES.  It 's — that,  sir. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  He  couldn't  be  sure. 

SURTEES.  Yes,  sir. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  An  operation 

SURTEES.  Too  late,  he  said,  for  that.  If  I 
had  been  operated  on  long  ago  there 
might  have  been  a  chance. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  But  you  didn't  have  it  long  ago. 

SURTEES.  Not  to  my  knowledge,  sir;  but 
he  says  it  was  there  all  the  same,  always 
in  me,  a  black  spot,  not  so  big  as  a  pin's 
head,  but  waiting  to  spread  and  destroy 
me  in  the  fulness  of  time.  All  the  rest 
of  me  as  sound  as  a  bell.  (That  is  the 
voice  that  SURTEES  has  been  hearing.) 

MR.  DEVIZES  (helpless).  It  seems  damnably 
unfair. 


180  THE  WILL 

SURTEES  (humbly}.  I  don't  know,  sir.  He 
says  there  's  a  spot  of  that  kind  in  pretty 
nigh  all  of  us,  and  if  we  don't  look  out  it 
does  for  us  in  the  end. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (hurriedly}.  No,  no,  no. 

SURTEES.   He  called   it  the  accursed   thing. 
I  think  he  meant  we  should  know  of  it 
and  be  on  the  watch.     (He  pulls  himself 
together.)     I  '11  see  to  this  at  once,  sir. 
(He  goes  out.     MR.  DEVIZES  continues 
his  lunch.) 

The  curtain  falls  here  for  a  moment 
only,  to  indicate  the  passing  of  a 
number  of  years.  When  it  rises  we 
see  that  the  engraving  of  Queen 
Victoria  has  given  way  to  one  of 
King  Edward. 

ROBERT  is  discovered,  immersed  in 
affairs.  He  is  now  a  middle-aged 
man  who  has  long  forgotten  how  to 
fling  cards  into  a  hat.  To  him 
comes  SENNET,  a  brisk  clerk. 


THE  WILL  181 

SENNET.  Mrs.  Philip  Ross  to  see  you,  sir. 
ROBERT.  Mr.  Ross,  don't  you  mean,  Sennet  ? 
SENNET.  No,  sir. 

ROBERT.  Ha.     It  was  Mr.  Ross  I  was  ex- 
pecting.      Show     her     in.        (Frowning) 
And,   Sennet,   less   row   in   the   office,   if 
you  please. 
SENNET   (glibly).  It  was  these  young  clerks, 

sir 

ROBERT.   They   mustn't  be  young  here,   or 

they  go.     Tell  them  that. 
SENNET  (glad  to  be  gone).  Yes,  sir. 

(He  shows  in  MRS.  Ross.  We  have 
not  seen  her  for  twenty  years  and 
would  certainly  not  recognise  her  in 
the  street.  So  shrinking  her  first 
entrance  into  this  room,  but  she  sails 
in  now  like  a  galleon.  She  is  not  so 
much  dressed  as  richly  upholstered. 
She  is  very  sure  of  herself.  Yet  she 
is  not  a  different  woman  from  the 
EMILY  we  remember;  the  pity  of  it  is 
that  somehow  this  is  the  same  woman.) 


182  THE  WILL 

ROBERT  (who  makes  much  of  his  important 
visitor  and  is  also  wondering  why  she  has 
come}.  This  is  a  delightful  surprise,  Mrs. 
Ross.  Allow  me.  (He  removes  her  fine 
cloak  with  proper  solicitude,  and  EMILY 
walks  out  of  it  in  the  manner  that  makes 
it  worth  possessing?)  This  chair,  alas,  is 
the  best  I  can  offer  you. 

EMILY  (who  is  still  a  good-natured  woman  if 
you  attempt  no  nonsense  with  her).  It  will 
do  quite  well. 

ROBERT  (gallantly).  Honoured  to  see  you 
in  it. 

EMILY  (smartly).  Not  you.  You  were  saying 
to  yourself,  *  Now,  what  brings  the  woman 
here  ? ' 

ROBERT.  Honestly,  I 

EMILY.  And  I  '11  tell  you.  You  are  expect- 
ing Mr.  Ross,  I  think  ? 

ROBERT  (cautiously).  Well — ah 

EMILY.  Pooh.  The  cunning  of  you  lawyers. 
I  know  he  has  an  appointment  with  you, 
and  that  is  why  I  've  come. 


THE  WILL  183 

ROBERT.  He  arranged  with  you  to  meet  him 
here  ? 

EMILY  (preening  herself).  I  wouldn't  say  that. 
I  don't  know  that  he  will  be  specially 
pleased  to  find  me  here  when  he  comes. 

ROBERT  (guardedly).  Oh? 

EMILY  (who  is  now  a  woman  that  goes  straight 
to  her  goal).  I  know  what  he  is  coming 
about.  To  make  a  new  will. 

ROBERT  (admitting  it).  After  all,  not  the 
first  he  has  made  with  us,  Mrs.  Ross. 

EMILY  (promptly).  No,  the  fourth. 

ROBERT  (warming  his  hands  at  the  thought). 
Such  a  wonderful  career.  He  goes  from 
success  to  success. 

EMILY  (complacently).  Yes,  we  're  big  folk. 

ROBERT.  You  are  indeed. 

EMILY  (sharply).  But  the  last  will  covered 
everything. 

ROBERT  (on  guard  again).  Of  course  it  is  a 
matter  I  cannot  well  discuss  even  with 
you.  And  I  know  nothing  of  his  inten- 
tions. 


184  THE  WILL 

EMILY.  Well,  I  suspect  some  of  them. 
ROBERT.  Ah. 

EMILY.  And  that 's  why  I  'm  here. 
Just  to  see  that  he  does  nothing 
foolish. 

(She  settles  herself  more  comfortably 
as  MR.  Ross  is  announced.  A  city 
magnate  walks  in.  You  know  he  is 
that  before  you  see  that  he  is  PHILIP 
Ross.) 

PHILIP  (speaking  as  he  enters).  How  do, 
Devizes,  how  do.  Well,  let  us  get  at 
this  thing  at  once.  Time  is  money,  you 
know,  time  is  money.  (Then  he  sees  his 
wife.)  Hello,  Emily. 

EMILY  (unperturbed).  You  didn't  ask  me  to 
come,  Philip,  but  I  thought  I  might  as 
well. 
PHILIP.  That 's  all  right. 

(His  brow  had  lowered  at  first  sight  of 
her,  but  now  he  gives  her  cleverness 
a  grin  of  respect.) 
EMILY.  It  is  the  first  will  you  have  made 


THE  WILL  185 

without     taking     me     into     your     con- 
fidence. 
PHILIP.     No     important     changes.     I     just 

thought  to  save  you  the — unpleasantness 

of  the  thing. 

EMILY.  How  do  you  mean  ? 
PHILIP   (fidgeting).  Well,  one  can't  draw  up 

a   will   without   feeling   for   the   moment 

that  he  is  bringing   his   end  nearer.     Is 

that  not  so,  Devizes  ? 
ROBERT  (who  will  quite  possibly  die  intestate). 

Some  do  have  that  feeling. 
EMILY.    But    what    nonsense.     How    can    it 

have  any  effect  of  that  kind  one  way  or 

the  other? 
ROBERT.  Quite  so. 
EMILY    (reprovingly).    Just    silly    sentiment, 

Philip.     I  would  have  thought  it  would 

be  a  pleasure  to  you  handling  such  a  big 

sum. 
PHILIP  (wincing).  Not  handling  it,  giving  it 

up. 
EMILY.  To  those  you  love. 


186  THE  WILL 

PHILIP    (rather   shortly] .    I  'm   not   giving   it 

up  yet.     You  talk  as  if  I  was  on  my  last 

legs. 
EMILY  (imperturbably) .  Not  at  all.     It 's  you 

that  are  doing  that. 
ROBERT  (to  the  rescue).  Here  is  my  copy  of 

the  last  will.     I  don't  know  if  you  would 

like  me  to  read  it  out  ? 
PHILIP.  It 's  hardly  necessary. 
EMILY.  We  have  our  own  copy  at  home  and 

we  know  it  well. 
PHILIP  (sitting  back  in  his  chair).  What  do 

you  think  I  'm  worth  to-day,  Devizes  ? 
(Every  one  smiles.     It  is  as  if  the  sun 

had  peeped  in  at  the  window.) 
ROBERT.  I  daren't  guess. 
PHILIP.  An  easy  seventy  thou. 
EMILY.  And  that 's  not  counting  the  house 

and  the  country  cottage.     We  call  it  a 

cottage.     You  should  see  it ! 
ROBERT.  I  have  heard  of  it. 
EMILY    (more    sharply,    though   the   sun    still 

shines).  Well,  go  on,   Philip.     I  suppose 


THE  WILL  187 

you  are  not  thinking  of  cutting  me  out 

of  anything. 
PHILIP  (heartily).  Of  course  not.     There  will 

be  more  to  you  than  ever. 
EMILY  (coolly).  There  's  more  to  leave. 

PHILIP  (hesitating).  At  the  same  time 

EMILY.  Well  ?     It 's   to  be   mine   absolutely 

of  course.     Not  just  a  life  interest. 
PHILIP  (doggedly).  That  is  a  change  I  was 

thinking  of. 
EMILY.  Just  what  I  have  suspected  for  days. 

Will  you  please  to  say  why  ? 
ROBERT  (whose  client  after  all  is  the  man).  Of 

course  it  is  quite  common. 
EMILY.  I  didn't  think  my  husband  was  quite 

common. 
ROBERT.    I    only   mean   that   as   there   are 

children 

PHILIP.  That 's  what  I  mean  too. 

EMILY.  And  I  can't  be  trusted  to  leave  my 

money   to    my   own   children!    In  what 

way  have  I  ever  failed  them  before  ? 
PHILIP  (believing  it  too).  Never,  Emily,  never. 


188  THE  WILL 

A  more  devoted  mother —    If  you  have 

one  failing  it  is  that  you  spoil  them. 
EMILY.  Then  what 's  your  reason  ? 
PHILIP    (less    sincerely).    Just    to    save    you 

worry  when  I  'm  gone. 
EMILY.  It 's  no  worry  to  me  to  look  after 

my  money. 

PHILIP  (bridling).  After  all,  it 's  my  money. 
EMILY.  I  knew  that  was  what  was  at  the 

back  of  your  mind. 
PHILIP     (reverently).     It 's     such     a     great 

sum. 
EMILY.  One  would  think  you  were  afraid  I 

would  marry  again. 
PHILIP    (snapping).    One    would    think    you 

looked  to  my  dying  next  week. 
EMILY.  Tuts. 

(PHILIP  is  unable  to  sit  still.) 
PHILIP.  My  money.     If  you  were  to  invest 

it  badly  and  lose  it.     I  tell  you,  Devizes, 

I    couldn't    lie    quiet    in    my    grave    if   I 

thought  my  money  was  lost  by  injudicious 

investments. 


THE  WILL  189 

EMILY  (coldly).  You  are  thinking  of  yourself, 
Philip,  rather  than  of  the  children. 

PHILIP.  Not  at  all. 

ROBERT  (hastily).  How  are  the  two  children? 

EMILY.  Though  I  say  it  myself,  there  never 
were  better.  Harry  is  at  Eton,  you  know, 
the  most  fashionable  school  in  the  country. 

ROBERT.  Doing  well,  I  hope. 

PHILIP  (chuckling).  We  have  the  most  grati- 
fying letters  from  him.  Last  Saturday 
he  was  caught  smoking  cigarettes  with  a 
lord.  (With  pardonable  pride)  They  were 
sick  together. 

ROBERT.  And  Miss  Gwendolen?  She  must 
be  almost  grown  up  now. 

(The      parents      exchange      important 
glances.) 

EMILY.  Should  we  tell  him  ? 

PHILIP.  Under  the  rose,  you  know,  Devizes. 

ROBERT.  Am  I  to  congratulate  her  ? 

EMILY.  No  names,  Philip. 

PHILIP.  No,  no  names — but  she  won't  be  a 
plain  Mrs.,  no  sir. 


190  THE  WILL 

ROBERT.  Well  done,  Miss  Gwendolen.     (With 

fitting  jocularity)    Now   I    see   why    you 

want  a  new  will. 

PHILIP.  Yes,  that 's  my  main  reason,  Emily. 
EMILY.  But  none  of  your  life  interests  for 

me,  Philip. 

PHILIP  (shying).  We  '11  talk  that  over  pres- 
ently. 
ROBERT.  Will  you  keep  the  legacies  as  they 

are? 
PHILIP.    Well,    there's    that    £500    for    the 

hospitals. 
EMILY.  Yes,  with  so  many  claims  on  us,  is 

that  necessary  ? 
PHILIP    (becoming    stouter).    I  'm    going    to 

make  it  £1000. 
EMILY.  Philip! 
PHILIP.  My  mind  is  made  up.     I  want  to 

make  a  splash  with  the  hospitals. 
ROBERT  (hurrying  to  the  next  item).  There  is 

£50  a  year  each  to  two  cousins,  ladies. 
PHILIP.  I  suppose  we  '11  keep  that  as  it  is, 

Emily? 


THE  WILL  191 

EMILY.  It  was  just  gifts  to  them  of  £100 

each  at  first. 

PHILIP.  I  was  poor  at  that  time  myself. 
EMILY.  Do  you  think  it 's  wise  to  load  them 

with     so     much     money  ?     They  '11     not 

know  what  to  do  with  it. 
PHILIP.  They  're  old. 
EMILY.    But    they  're    wiry.     £75    a    year 

between  them  would  surely  be  enough. 
PHILIP.  It  would  be  if  they  lived  together, 

but  you  see  they  don't.     They  hate  each 

other  like  cat  and  dog. 
EMILY.   That 's  not  nice  between  relatives. 

You  could  leave  it  to  them  on  condition 

that  they  do  live  together.     That  would 

be  a  Christian  action. 
PHILIP.  There  's  something  in  that. 
ROBERT.  Then  the  chief  matter  is  whether 

Mrs.  Ross 

EMILY.  Oh,  I  thought  that  was  settled. 
PHILIP  (with  a  sigh).  I  '11  have  to  give  in  to 

her,  sir. 
ROBERT.   Very  well.     I  suppose  my  father 


192  THE  WILL 

will    want   to    draw    up    the    will.     I  'm 

sorry  he  had  to  be  in  the  country  to-day. 
EMILY    (affable   now  that  she  has  gained  her 

point) .  I  hope  he  is  wearing  well  ? 
ROBERT.  Wonderfully.     He  is  away  playing 

golf. 
PHILIP    (grinning).    Golf.     I    have    no  time 

for  games.     (Considerately)  But  he  must 

get  the  drawing  up  of  my  will.     I  couldn't 

deprive  the  old  man  of  that. 
ROBERT.  He  will  be  proud  to  do  it  again. 
PHILIP   (well  satisfied) .  Ah !     There  's   many 

a  one  would  like  to  look  over  your  father's 

shoulder  when  he  's  drawing  up  my  will. 

I  wonder  what  I  '11  cut  up  for  in  the  end. 

But  I  must  be  going. 
EMILY.  Can  I  drop  you  anywhere?     I  have 

the  greys  out. 
PHILIP.  Yes,  at  the  club. 

(Now  MRS.  Ross  walks  into  her  cloak.) 

Good-day,  Devizes.     I  won't  have  time 

to  look  in  again,  so  tell  the  old  man  to 

come  to  me. 


THE  WILL  193 

ROBERT  (deferentially).  Whatever  suits  you 

best.     (Ringing.)     He  will  be  delighted. 

I  remember  his  saying  to  me  on  the  day 

you  made  your  first  will 

PHILIP  (chuckling).  A  poor  little  affair  that. 
ROBERT.  He  said  to  me  you  were  a  couple 

whose  life  looked  like  being  a  romance. 
PHILIP.    And   he    was   right — eh,    Emily? — 

though  he  little  thought  what  a  romance. 
EMILY.  No,  he  little  thought  what  a  romance. 
(They   make   a  happy   departure,   and 
ROBERT  is  left  reflecting.) 

The  curtain  again  falls,  and  rises  im- 
mediately, as  the  engraving  shows, 
on  the  same  office  in  the  reign  of  King 
George.  It  is  a  foggy  morning  and 
a  fire  burns  briskly.  MR.  DEVIZES, 
SENIOR,  arrives  for  the  day's  work 
just  as  he  came  daily  for  over  half 
a  century.  But  he  has  no  right  to 
be  here  now.  A  year  or  two  ago 
they  got  him  to  retire,  as  he  was  grown 


194  THE  WILL 

feeble;  and  there  is  an  understanding 
that  he  does  not  go  out  of  his  house 
alone.  He  has,  as  it  were,  escaped 
to-day,  and  his  feet  have  carried  him 
to  the  old  office  that  is  the  home  of 
his  mind.  He  was  almost  portly 
when  we  saw  him  first,  but  he  has 
become  little  again  and  as  light  as  the 
schoolboy  whose  deeds  are  nearer  to 
him  than  many  of  the  events  of  later 
years.  He  arrives  at  the  office, 
thinking  it  is  old  times,  and  a  clerk  sur- 
veys him  uncomfortably  from  the  door. 

CREED  (not  quite  knowing  what  to  do).  Mr. 

Devizes  has  not  come  in  yet,  sir. 
MR.    DEVIZES    (considering).    Yes,    I    have. 

Do  you  mean  Mr.  Robert  ? 
CREED.  Yes,  sir. 
MR.    DEVIZES    (querulously).    Always    late. 

Can't    get    that    boy    to    settle    down. 

(Leniently)     Well,     well,    boys     will    be 

boys — eh,  Surtees  ? 


THE  WILL  195 

CREED  (wishing  MR.  ROBERT  would  come). 

My  name  is  Creed,  sir. 
MR.  DEVIZES  (sharply).  Creed?    Don't  know 

you.     Where  is  Surtees  ? 
CREED.  There  is  no  one  of  that  name  in  the 

office,  sir. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (growing  timid).  No?  I  re- 
member now.  Poor  Surtees!  (But  his 
mind  cannot  grapple  with  troubles.)  Tell 
him  I  want  him  when  he  comes  in. 

(He  is  changing,  after  his  old  custom, 

into  an  office  coat.) 
CREED.  That  is  Mr.  Dev — Mr.  Robert's  coat, 

sir. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  He  has  no  business  to  hang 

it  there.     That  is  my  nail. 
CREED.  He  has  hung  it  there  for  years,  sir. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  Not  at  all.     I  must  have  it. 
Why  does  Surtees  let  him  do  it?    Help 
me  into  my  office  coat,  boy. 

(CREED  helps  him  into  the  coat  he 
has  taken  of,  and  the  old  man  is 
content.) 


196  THE  WILL 

CREED  (seeing  him  lift  up  the  correspondence). 
I  don't  think  Mr.  Devizes  would  like  you 
to  open  the  office  letters,  sir. 
MR.  DEVIZES  (pettishly).  What's  that?     Go 
away,  boy.     Send  Surtees. 

(To  the  relief  of  CREED,  ROBERT  arrives, 
and,  taking  in  the  situation,  signs  to 
the  clerk  to  go.     He  has  a  more  youth- 
ful manner  than  when  last  we  saw  him, 
has  ROBERT,  but  his  hair  is  iron  grey. 
He  is  kindly  to  his  father.) 
ROBERT.  You  here,  father? 
MR.  DEVIZES  (after  staring  at  him).  Yes,  you 
are   Robert.     (A    little  frightened.)     You 
are  an  old  man,  Robert. 
ROBERT  (without  wincing).  Getting  on,  father. 
But  why  did  they  let  you  come?    You 
haven't  been  here  for  years. 
MR.  DEVIZES   (puzzled).  Years?    I  think  I 
just  came  in  the  old  way,  Robert,  without 
thinking. 

ROBERT.  Yes,  yes.    I  '11  get  some  one  to  go 
home  with  you. 


THE  WILL  197 

MR.  DEVIZES  (rather  abject}.  Let  me  stay, 
Robert.  I  like  being  here.  I  won't  dis- 
turb you.  I  like  the  smell  of  the 
office,  Robert. 

ROBERT.  Of  course  you  may  stay.  Come 
over  to  the  fire.  (He  settles  his  father  by 
the  fire  in  the  one  arm-chair.)  There; 
you  can  have  a  doze  by  the  fire. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  A  doze  by  the  fire.  That  is 
all  I  'm  good  for  now.  Once — but  my 
son  hangs  his  coat  there  now.  (Presently 
he  looks  up  fearfully.)  Robert,  tell  me 
something  in  a  whisper:  Is  Surtees 
dead? 

ROBERT  (who  has  forgotten  the  name).  Surtees  ? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  My  clerk,  you  know. 

ROBERT.  Oh.  Why,  he  has  been  dead  this 
thirty  years,  father. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  So  long!  Seems  like  yester- 
day. 

ROBERT.  It  is  just  far  back  times  that  seem 
clear  to  you  now. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (meekly).  Is  it. 


198  THE  WILL 

(ROBERT    opens    his    letters,    and    his 

father  falls  asleep.     CREED  comes.) 
CREED.  Sir  Philip  Ross. 

(The  great  SIR  PHILIP  enters,  nearly 
sixty  now,  strong  of  frame  still,  but 
a  lost  man.  He  is  in  mourning, 
and  carries  the  broken  pieces  of  his 
life  with  an  air  of  braggadocio. 
It  should  be  understood  that  he  is  not 
a  'sympathetic'  part,  and  any  actor 
who  plays  him  as  such  will  be  rolling 
the  play  in  the  gutter.) 
ROBERT  (on  his  feet  at  once  to  greet  such  a 

client).  You,  Sir  Philip. 
PHILIP  (head  erect).  Here  I  am. 
ROBERT    (because    it    will    out).    How    are 

you? 

PHILIP    (as  if  challenged).   I  'm   all   right — 
great.     (With  defiant  jocularity)  Called  on 
the  old  business. 
ROBERT.  To  make  another  will  ? 
PHILIP.   You  've   guessed   it — the   very   first 
time.     (He  sees  the  figure  by  the  fire.) 


THE  WILL  199 

ROBERT.  Yes,  it 's  my  father.  He  's  dozing. 
Shouldn't  be  here  at  all.  He  forgets 
things.  It 's  just  age. 

PHILIP  (grimly).  Forgets  things.  That  must 
be  fine. 

ROBERT  (conventionally).  I  should  like,  Sir 
Philip,  to  offer  you  my  sincere  con- 
dolences. In  the  midst  of  life  we  are — 
How  true  that  is.  I  attended  the  funeral. 

PHILIP.  I  saw  you. 

ROBERT.  A  much  esteemed  lady.  I  had 
a  great  respect  for  her. 

PHILIP  (almost  with  relish).  Do  you  mind, 
when  we  used  to  come  here  about  the 
will,  somehow  she — we — always  took  for 
granted  I  should  be  the  first  to  go. 

ROBERT  (devoutly).  These  things  are  hid 
from  mortal  eyes. 

PHILIP  (with  conviction).  There  's  a  lot  hid. 
We  needn't  have  worried  so  much  about 
the  will  if — well,  let  us  get  at  it.  (Fiercely) 
I  haven't  given  in,  you  know. 

ROBERT.  We  must  bow  our  heads 


200  THE  WILL 

PHILIP.  Must  we?    Am  I  bowing  mine  ? 

ROBERT  (uncomfortably).  Such  courage  in 
the  great  hour — yes — and  I  am  sure  Lady 
Ross 

PHILIP  (with  the  ugly  humour  that  has  come 
to  him).  She  wasn't  that. 

ROBERT.  The  honour  came  so  soon  after- 
wards— I  feel  she  would  like  to  be  thought 
of  as  Lady  Ross.  I  shall  always  re- 
member her  as  a  fine  lady  richly  dressed 
who  used 

PHILIP  (harshly).  Stop  it.  That 's  not  how 
I  think  of  her.  There  was  a  time  before 
that — she  wasn't  richly  dressed — (he 
stamps  upon  his  memories).  Things  went 
wrong,  I  don't  know  how.  It 's  a  beast 
of  a  world.  I  didn't  come  here  to  talk 
about  that.  Let  us  get  to  work. 

ROBERT  (turning  with  relief  from  the  cemetery). 
Yes,  yes,  and  after  all  life  has  its  com- 
pensations. You  have  your  son  who 

PHILIP  (snapping).  No,  I  haven't.  (This 
startles  the  lawyer.)  I  'm  done  with  him. 


THE  WILL  201 

ROBERT.  If  he  has  been  foolish 

PHILIP.  Foolish !  (Some  dignity  comes  into 
the  man.)  Sir,  I  have  come  to  a  pass 
when  foolish  as  applied  to  my  own  son 
would  seem  to  me  a  very  pretty  word. 

ROBERT.  Is  it  as  bad  as  that  ? 

PHILIP.  He  's  a  rotter. 

ROBERT.  It  is  very  painful  to  me  to  hear 
you  say  that. 

PHILIP.  More  painful,  think  you,  than  for 
me  to  say  it  ?  (Clenching  his  fists.)  But 
I  've  shipped  him  off.  The  law  had  to 
wink  at  it,  or  I  couldn't  have  done  it. 
Why  don't  you  say  I  pampered  him 
and  it  serves  me  right  ?  It 's  what  they 
are  all  saying  behind  my  back.  Why 
don't  you  ask  me  about  my  girl  ?  That 's 
another  way  to  rub  it  in. 

ROBERT.  Don't,  Sir  Philip.  I  knew  her. 
My  sympathy 

PHILIP.  A  chauffeur,  that  is  what  he  was. 
The  man  who  drove  her  own  car. 

ROBERT.  I  was  deeply  concerned 


202  THE  WILL 

PHILIP.  I  want  nobody's  pity.  I  've  done 
with  both  of  them,  and  if  you  think  I  'm 
a  broken  man  you  're  much  mistaken.  I  '11 
show  them.  Have  you  your  papers  there  ? 
Then  take  down  my  last  will.  I  have 
everything  in  my  head.  I  '11  show  them. 

ROBERT.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  wait 
till  a  calmer 

PHILIP.  Will  you  do  it  now,  or  am  I  to  go 
across  the  street  ? 

ROBERT.  If  I  must. 

PHILIP.  Then  down  with  it.  (He  wets  his 
lips.)  I,  Philip  Ross,  of  77  Bath  Street, 
W.,  do  hereby  revoke  all  former  wills 
and  testaments,  and  I  leave  everything 
of  which  I  die  possessed 

ROBERT.  Yes? 

PHILIP.  Everything  of  which  I  die  pos- 
sessed  

ROBERT.  Yes? 

PHILIP.  I  leave  it — I  leave  it —  (The  game  is 
up.)  My  God,  Devizes,  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  it. 


THE  WILL  203 

ROBERT.  I — I — really — come 

PHILIP  (cynically).  Can't  you  make  any  sug- 
gestions ? 

ROBERT.  Those  cousins  are  dead,  I  think  ? 

PHILIP.  Years  ago. 

ROBERT  (troubled}.  In  the  case  of  such  a 
large  sum 

PHILIP  (letting  all  his  hoarded  gold  run  through 
his  fingers).  The  money  I  Ve  won  with 
my  blood.  God  in  heaven !  (Showing  his 
teeth.)  Would  that  old  man  like  it  to 
play  with?  If  I  bring  it  to  you  in 
sacks,  will  you  fling  it  out  of  the  window 
for  me  ? 

ROBERT.  Sir  Philip ! 

PHILIP  (taking  a  paper  from  his  pocket).  Here, 
take  this.  It  has  the  names  and  ad- 
dresses of  the  half-dozen  men  I  Ve  fought 
with  most  for  gold;  and  I  Ve  beaten 
them.  Draw  up  a  will  leaving  all  my 
money  to  be  divided  between  them,  with 
my  respectful  curses,  and  bring  it  to  my 
house  and  I  '11  sign  it. 


204  THE  WILL 

ROBERT  (properly  shocked).  But  really  I  can't 
possibly 

PHILIP.  Either  you  or  another;  is  it  to  be 
you? 

ROBERT.  Very  well. 

PHILIP.  Then  that 's  settled.     (He  rises  with 
a  laugh.     He  regards  MR.  DEVIZES  quiz- 
zically.)    So  you  weren't  in  at  the  last 
will  after  all,  old  Sleep  by  the  Fire. 
(To  their  surprise  the  old  man  stirs.) 

MR.  DEVIZES.  What 's  that  about  a  will  ? 

ROBERT.  You  are  awake,  father  ? 

MR.    DEVIZES    (whose   eyes   have   opened   on 
PHILIP'S  face).  I  don't  know  you,  sir. 

ROBERT.    Yes,    yes,    father,    you    remember 
Mr.  Ross.     He  is  Sir  Philip  now. 

MR.    DEVIZES    (courteously).    Sir   Philip?     I 
wish  you  joy,  sir,  but  I  don't  know  you. 

ROBERT  (encouragingly).  Ross,  father. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  I  knew  a  Mr.  Ross  long  ago. 

ROBERT.  This  is  the  same. 

MR.  DEVIZES  (annoyed).  No,  no.     A  bright 
young  fellow  he  was,  with  such  a  dear, 


THE  WILL  205 

pretty  wife.  They  came  to  make  a  will. 
(He  chuckles.)  And  bless  me,  they  had 
only  twopence  halfpenny.  I  took  a 
fancy  to  them;  such  a  happy  pair. 

ROBERT  (apologetically).  The  past  is  clearer 
to  him  than  the  present  nowadays.  That 
will  do,  father. 

PHILIP  (brusquely).  Let  him  go  on. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  Poor  souls,  it  all  ended  un- 
happily, you  know. 

PHILIP  (who  is  not  brusque  to  him).  Yes,  I 
know.  Why  did  things  go  wrong,  sir? 
I  sit  and  wonder,  and  I  can't  find  the 
beginning. 

MR.  DEVIZES.  That 's  the  sad  part  of  it. 
There  was  never  a  beginning.  It  was 
always  there.  He  told  me  all  about  it. 

ROBERT.  He  is  thinking  of  something  else; 
I  don't  know  what. 

PHILIP.  Quiet.  What  was  it  that  was 
always  there? 

MR.  DEVIZES.  It  was  always  in  them — a  spot 
no  bigger  than  a  pin's  head,  but  waiting 


206  THE  WILL 

to  spread  and  destroy  them  in  the  fulness 

of  time. 
ROBERT.  I  don't  know  what  he  has  got  hold 

of. 
PHILIP.  He  knows.     Could  they  have  done 

anything  to  prevent  it,  sir  ? 
MR.  DEVIZES.  If  they  had  been  on  the  watch. 

But  they  didn't  know,  so  they  weren't 

on  the  watch.     Poor  souls. 
PHILIP.  Poor  souls. 
MR.  DEVIZES.  It 's  called  the  accursed  thing. 

It  gets  nearly  everybody  in  the  end,  if 

they  don't  look  out. 

(He    sinks    back    into    his    chair   and 

forgets  them.) 

ROBERT.  He  is  just  wandering. 
PHILIP.  The  old  man  knows. 

(He  slowly  tears  up  the  paper  he  had 

given  ROBERT.) 
ROBERT  (relieved).  I  am  glad  to  see  you  do 

that. 
PHILIP.  A  spot  no  bigger  than  a  pin's  head. 

(A  wish  wells  up  in  him,  too  late  perhaps.) 


THE  WILL  207 

I  wish  I  could  help  some  young  things 
before  that  spot  has  time  to  spread  and 
destroy  them  as  it  has  destroyed  me  and 
mine. 

ROBERT  (brightly).  With  such  a  large  for- 
tune  

PHILIP  (summing  up  his  life).  It  can't  be  done 
with  money,  sir. 

(He  goes  away;  God  knows  where.) 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


ii  i    i    ii    ii  i    n    MI    l    ll   ll    I    II  I   I    II 

A    001  131  810    2 


